


this love will be my downfall

by topside



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topside/pseuds/topside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He often teases her, goads her; inciting a reaction from her gives him an indescribable joy. He also dreams of her, of suffocating her with kisses and teaching her how a real man loves his woman." </p><p>F!Dragonborn/Vilkas, F!Dragonborn/Brynjolf in future chapters. </p><p>-I do not own Skyrim. Bethesda Studios does.-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bring It!

**Author's Note:**

> This is "this love will be my downfall," also known as "how many synonyms for 'fight' can I come up with!" Seriously though, this was supposed to be an angsty oneshot about Mayenor, my Dragonborn, having to choose between Vilkas and Brynjolf. And wouldn't you know it, it turned into another chapter series. Ask me if I'm surprised. (I'm not.)
> 
> Anyway, as usual, I hope you enjoy! Please please please don't hesitate to leave comments or criticism!
> 
> God bless!
> 
> ♥ topside

Something is wrong.

He can tell from the moment she barrels into Jorrvaskr, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her with deafening force, that she is furious. Rage positively radiates from her, and, as she stomps down the stairs and tosses herself into a seat at the long table, some of the whelps nearest her scatter lest they fall victim to her anger. He sits in his usual spot at the end of the table, a tankard of ale resting in front of him, and he eyes her with a secretive smirk. She catches his gaze and her pretty lips twist into a scowl.

“The fuck are you looking at?” She snarls, and he leans back in his chair, now grinning.

“Now, now, Shield-Sister,” he chides, his patronizing tone causing her to ball her hands into fists. “Such language! What happened to the eager young Nord who first stepped through those doors?”

“I grew up,” she snaps, grabbing a hunk of bread and ripping it apart with her teeth. He admires her strong neck and animalistic fervor.

“Well that’s a shame,” he sighs. “Here I was hoping you’d grow up enough we could have a decent fight, but you’ve already gotten _old._ ”

“I’m not old!” She protests through a mouthful of bread, which she hurriedly washes down with mead from a nearby pitcher. The strong, bitter taste makes her eyes water as she struggles to swallow the acrid liquid. “I’m not old,” she repeats once her mouth is empty. “And I can take you any day!”

Her challenge lacks eloquence, and he has to bite back a sigh. He has fought at her side and he knows she is strong; her strength sometimes allows him to forget that she is barely out of childhood, with fewer than twenty winters under her belt. He often teases her, goads her; inciting a reaction from her gives him an indescribable joy. He also dreams of her, of suffocating her with kisses and teaching her how a real man loves his woman. But he refuses to view her as more than a Shield-Sister and rival for now; she is too young for him. He knows the only way he can interact with her without his affection being revealed is through taunting and sparring.

“If you _really_ think that,” he says, hauling himself to his feet and taking a gulp of his mead, “then let’s see you prove it.” She hesitates, clutching her hunk of bread too tightly, and he throws back his head and laughs. “Are you _scared_ , whelp?” He teases, and she tosses the bread back onto the table, standing with fists clenched.

“I’m not a whelp,” she says lowly, “and I’m definitely not afraid to put you in your place.” She reaches over her shoulder and draws the greatsword Eorlund forged for her in the Skyforge; he barely has time to palm his own dagger, the only weapon he carries on him while in Jorrvaskr, before she lunges toward him.

“ _Vilkas! Mayenor!_ ” She stops mid-swing when Aela’s voice rings out across the mead hall’s main room. Vilkas turns to face her, calm expression belying the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stoops to retrieve his own sword from its place beside his chair. “Take it _outside_.” Aela orders, pointing to the doors that lead out to the courtyard. Obediently, Mayenor re-sheathes her weapon and heads for the doors, Vilkas following. He gives Aela a curious look as she and Farkas fall into step behind him.

“I have to make sure you don’t kill one another,” Aela explains, as though her motives should be obvious to him.

“And you?” Vilkas questions his brother, who grins sheepishly and shrugs.

“I just wanna watch a good fight,” he admits, and Vilkas feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Farkas lives a simple life and finds joy in small things, and sometimes Vilkas envies him.

“Are you _coming_?” Mayenor’s petulant voice reaches his ears through the open doors, and he lingers at the threshold, letting himself wish, just for a moment, that he could approach the girl with his true intentions instead of baiting her into fighting so he can satisfy his desire for physical contact, however briefly.

“No weapons,” Aela cautions as she and Farkas find seats under the awning, where they’ll be protected from the blistering heat of the midday Skyrim sun.

“What?” Mayenor asks, looking taken aback.

“No weapons,” Aela repeats, and she reaches a hand out to the girl, clearly expecting her to surrender her sword and sheath. While Mayenor gapes at this unexpected turn of events, Vilkas places his own weapons in his brother’s care, then turns to face his opponent. He is surprised to see that she is unloading her weapons without any further argument; he’s even more surprised to note how many weapons she has to discard. Two daggers emerge from hidden sheathes on each hip and one more from each boot. She lifts her bow, a black construct covered in engraved runes that glow faintly with a pearly sheen, over her head and sets it on the table, followed by a quiver of orcish arrows. Finally, she unstraps her greatsword’s sheath and surrenders it, sword securely tucked inside, to Aela. Even the older woman looks impressed as she takes stock of Mayenor’s personal arsenal.

“A real warrior stands alone and doesn’t rely on weapons,” Vilkas quips, but he instantly regrets it as Mayenor’s green eyes turn fiery. He always takes his provoking a step too far, and he’s afraid she’s beginning to hate him. He doesn’t want her to hate him; one day, he hopes she’ll learn to love him.

“I’ll show _you_ ,” she mutters, spinning on her heel and marching into the training courtyard. “Come on. Let’s see who the _real_ warrior is.” Vilkas grins and descends the steps to join her. She raises her fists, settling into a fighting stance, and he does the same, noting that she looks stiff and uncomfortable. He attributes that to her sudden lack of weapons; he understands as well as anyone else that having a sword by your side gives you a sense of safety that can’t be achieved otherwise.

He gets lost in his thoughts – lost in _her_ – and almost misses her first attack. He steps aside just in time, and she stumbles a bit before whirling around to face him again.

“You’re getting slow, old man,” she purrs, and the venomous glee in her voice sends a shiver of desire down his spine. She _enjoys_ fighting, and he finds that dangerously attractive.

She lunges again, and he dances aside, shifting forward to snatch her wrist as she passes by him. He twists her arm behind her back, pulling her tight up against him. Her fingers scratch at his chest as she squirms to get away, but he only holds her tighter.

“Want to give up now,” he hisses in her ear, and she stiffens as his hot breath wafts across her neck, “or continue this charade?” She merely grunts in response, and after a second more, he feels a sharp pain in his knee. He stumbles back, realizing she kicked him, and with enough force to break the bone in a smaller man.

“I told you I’m going to put you in your place, and I intend to do just that,” she tells him firmly, and it takes all his willpower not to sweep her into his arms and pepper her with kisses. He loves how stubborn she is.

She darts forward and manages to land a punch on the side of his jaw, and the pain brings him out of his moment of admiration. His beastly instinct is beginning to kick in, but he battles it, knowing that once he starts fighting in earnest, the skirmish will be over and she will ignore him and sulk for the rest of the night. So he begins to prowl around in a circle, and she moves in the opposite direction, eyes darting across his body as she tries to find an opening. While she searches him, he leaps forward and sweeps his legs behind her knees; she crumples to the ground with a yelp of surprise. He could easily pin her to the ground now, but he refutes his training and returns to a fighting stance, waiting while she picks herself off the ground and readies herself for another attack.

“He’s like a cat with a mouse,” Aela observes with amusement, her voice carrying to the fighters. “ _Playing_ with his prey.” Farkas chuckles.

“He always does this with her,” he remarks, watching his brother. “Though he never takes it easy on _me_ …”

“I’m twice her size,” Vilkas comments, eyes still glued to Mayenor’s. “I don’t want to crush the little thing.” Mayenor scowls, obviously objecting to his referring to her as a ‘thing’. She sprints toward him, catching him off-guard, and he instinctively thrusts a fist out to meet her stomach; he hears a sharp _crack_ and winces sympathetically as she groans, fingers curling around his wrist as she tries to remain upright. He slips his free arm around her shoulders to support her; she shrugs him off and stumbles away, bent nearly double and clutching her side, still managing to pierce him with a poisonous glare.

Aela steps up beside Mayenor and puts gentle hands on her shoulders. The girl collapses gratefully into the older woman’s embrace; over her head, Aela frowns at Vilkas, who, for a moment, is at a loss for what to do.

“I didn’t mean to-” He stammers, but Aela is leading Mayenor away, back into Jorrvaskr. Farkas thumps down the stairs to join Vilkas.

“She’ll be fine,” he assures his brother; Vilkas continues to stare after the women, looking stricken.

“I wasn’t trying to _hurt_ her,” he repeats, and Farkas frowns.

“Of course not. And you’ve done worse than that training the whelps. Remember when you almost cut Ethelia’s arm off? Don’t worry about her.” Vilkas purses his lips and realizes that Farkas is blind to his feelings for the girl, something Vilkas had begun to fear his brother suspected.

“She’s just a kid,” he grunts in response, shouldering past his sibling. “Don’t want to kill her.” He stops to retrieve his weapons, then stomps into the main hall, good mood fouled with worry. He casts a glance toward the stairs down which he knew Aela had led Mayenor, then falls into his usual seat and takes up his tankard, filling it with mead. If he can’t find comfort in being by Mayenor’s side, he’ll find it in a few pitchers of mead.


	2. Hired Muscle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a terrible human being and took WAY too long to update this. Sorry, folks! I'll try to be better in the future, but no promises.
> 
> As usual, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ♥ topside

She awakens many hours later. Or… maybe _not_ many hours later. She can see the sun streaming in through a window above her bed, and it seems as bright as it was when she fell asleep. She tries to sit up, to get a better look, but groans as her injured ribs protest the pressure. As she falls back to the pillows, there is a rustle from across the room; she turns her head to look and sees Ria hovering over her.

“Are you ok?” The woman – if she could be called that, being so close in age to Mayenor herself – asks worriedly. “I mean, obviously you’re not. Your ribs are broken and everything. And Vilkas hasn’t even apologized!” She looks annoyed by this fact, and Mayenor chuckles.

“I don’t expect him to, Ria,” she assures her Shield-Sister, slowly raising herself into a sitting position and wincing when her ribs are jostled. Ria flits around her, chattering vaguely, but Mayenor ignores her.

She realizes she’s been stripped of her armor, presumably by Aela, and left to rest in her underwear and tank top. Sighing, she stands and struggles to at least pull on some pants. She manages just fine by herself until it comes time to button the linen slacks, when she finds that trying the button causes her forearms to put pressure on her ribs. Ria swoops in to help her, and she bites her lip, fighting back the indignation that consumes her. As soon as Ria is out of the way, she limps her way out the door, carrying herself as proudly as she can manage.

“Where are you going?” Ria continues to flutter around her. “You don’t have shoes on. You shouldn’t go upstairs, it’ll hurt your ribs. Oh, and Aela wants to see you when you wake up. And, obviously, you’re awake now, so you should go find her.” Mayenor closes her eyes and draws a slow breath, begging the gods for patience. Ria means well, but her over-eager and overly-chatty nature quickly grates on her nerves. She’s the reason Mayenor almost never spends the night in Jorrvaskr, sometimes paying for a room just to avoid her.

“Luckily, that’s exactly where I’m going. And I have a private matter to discuss with her, so if you’d let us have a moment…?” She’s being as gentle as she can manage, but Ria still looks crestfallen.

“Oh. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? I want you to get better. See, I was thinking maybe I could go with you on your next adventure-”

“Breakfast,” Mayenor cuts in sharply before Ria can get carried away. “Could you get me some breakfast? Maybe a sweet roll?”

“Of course!” Ria coos, happy to be useful. As she turns and heads for the stairs with a spring in her step, Mayenor slips down the hall and to Aela’s study. She knocks and waits for an answer before entering.

“You’re up. Good. I was beginning to think the Temple of Kynareth had lost its healing powers.” Aela is bent over her work and barely spares a glance at Mayenor when she enters. “Drink that,” she demands, jerking her chin toward a reddish bottle. “It’ll taste like shit, but it’ll take away the pain and speed up your healing.” Obediently, Mayenor takes the bottle and uncorks it, sniffing warily at the contents. “Don’t you dare turn your nose up at it,” Aela warns. “I paid good coin for that. Besides, you’re gonna need your strength.” Something in the woman’s voice gives Mayenor an inexplicable feeling of dread. Nonetheless, she takes a deep breath and tips the contents of the red bottle down her throat.

She coughs and splutters, struggling to swallow and fighting not to vomit even once she has.

“Don’t you _dare_ throw that up!” Aela orders. “I paid two hundred septims for that!”

“I’ll pay you back,” Mayenor mumbles, her words muffled by the hand that covers her mouth, “if you let me throw it up.”

“ _No_ ,” she replies sternly, and Mayenor closes her eyes, forcing her gag reflex to calm down. After a moment, she straightens and looks to Aela, nodding.

“I think I’m good now.”

“Good. And don’t worry about paying me back. It came from the Companion’s funds. Now,” she begins shuffling the papers on her desk around. “I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

“Yeah, you mentioned I’m going to need that potion. Why?” Mayenor asks, already feeling the warm comfort of healing magic blossoming over her injured ribs.

“I need you to accompany another Companion on a job,” Aela answers carefully, which only heightens Mayenor’s suspicion.

“Which Companion? _Please_ not Torvar. Last time I went on a job with him, he tried to get into my sleeping roll with me and I ended up stabbing him in the arm.” Aela bites back a grin.

“No, it’s not Torvar,” she assures her Shield-Sister. “Worse.”

“Ria?” Mayenor guesses. “She’s a bad shot and she’s annoying.”

“Worse.”

“Um… You? You’re a bitch to travel with.” Aela shoots a playfully threatening glare at Mayenor, but shakes her head in the negative. “Well then who? I don’t know who else would be awful to work with.”

“Vilkas,” Aela sighs, and Mayenor stares in disbelief.

“ _Vilkas?_ The guy who just broke my ribs? No. I refuse the job.”

“You can’t refuse a job and you know it.”

“Why don’t you send Farkas with him? They fight well together.”

“They’re too competitive. They start trying to out-fight one another and they get reckless. The Jarl of Falkreath didn’t give many details when I took the contract. All he said was that he’s having a ‘serious problem’ with bandits attacking farms and houses throughout the Hold. The attacks have been pretty scattered, so it looks like we’re going up against an entire camp, not just an outpost. I can’t risk Farkas and Vilkas making a mistake and getting themselves killed.”

“Well then send Torvar with him. Let them have some nice bonding time.” Mayenor is practically begging, but she can’t even care. She’ll do anything to avoid a job with Vilkas.

“I know you’re just trying to get out of this, but you’re not going to.” Aela’s voice is firm, but her smile is sympathetic. “As much as you hate it, the two of you make an excellent team. Plus, you’re more familiar with Falkreath than anyone else. _My Thane._ ” She smirks when she voices the title, and Mayenor wrinkles her nose.

“Don’t call me that. I didn’t want to be Thane,” she says, a distinct whine to her voice.

“You shouldn’t keep it hidden from everyone,” Aela comments. “We’re your family. You should share honors like that, not keep them to yourself.”

Mayenor thinks of everything else she’s keeping from the Companions: that she is the Dragonborn, that she belongs to the Thieves’ Guild in Riften, that she is an assassin with the Dark Brotherhood. There’s much about her life she’s kept hidden from the various factions with which she’s associated. No one in Skyrim, save Mayenor herself, truly knows her, though at least one _thinks_ he does.

“I just don’t want anyone treating me differently,” she finally says, shrugging.

“Not even Vilkas? He might give you some respect if he knew your position.”

“I don’t need his respect,” she scowls. “If he wants to treat me like a whelp, that’s fine. It’ll just hurt his pride even more when I kick his ass.” Aela shakes her head.

“Don’t kill each other, please. I need you both in good condition. With all these dragons showing up, I get the feeling we’re going to be getting in quite a few contracts. Now, go get details from Vilkas. He should be in his room packing.” Aela waves a vague goodbye, obviously dismissing Mayenor.

With a huff, Mayenor leaves the office, shutting the door behind her. For a moment, she stands and glowers at the wall, quietly fuming. She doesn’t spend a lot of time at Jorrvaskr: between the Dark Brotherhood sending her out to fulfill contracts, trying to keep the dragon threat under control, and getting the Thieves’ Guild back on its feet, she has her hands full most of the time.

“Figures I’d get a job as soon as I get back,” she grumbles, kicking angrily at the stone floor.

“Say what?” Mayenor jumps in surprise when Ria swoops up beside her, carrying a tray laden with sweet rolls, fruits, and a pitcher of juice.

“Nothing,” Mayenor replies, waving a hand dismissively. “Thank you for this. It looks wonderful.” Ria beams, and together they find a nearby empty table and settle down to share a meal.

“So what did Aela say?” Ria asked as Maynor devours her food. She must have been knocked out for quite a while; she’s starving.

“She’s sending me on a job. With _Vilkas_.” Ria looks as appalled as Mayenor feels.

“After you’ve spent the last three days doped up with healing magic? Your ribs are broken; how does she expect you to accomplish anything?”

“Healing potion,” Mayenor answers, patting her side to prove that she is, indeed, better.

“Still, why him?”

“I don’t know,” she answers with a shrug, washing down the last bite of her sweet roll with a gulp of juice.

“Well… When are you leaving?” Ria asks earnestly, clearly hoping Mayenor won’t disappear anytime soon. After a job, she tends to vanish to who knows where for a few months.

“I don’t know. I have to go find Vilkas and ask.” Mayenor scowls, clearly not looking forward to the conversation. “Thanks again for the food,” she asks, standing from her place at the table. “I better go find Vilkas…”

“No problem!” Ria chirps. “And make him apologize!” She calls after Mayenor as the younger girl heads down the hall. Mayenor can’t hide a grin.

She’s never been to Vilkas’s room, but she knows it’s across from Farkas’s, which she’s visited a few times on various errands. She pads down the hallway on which the brothers live, the stone floor cool against her bare feet, and when she reaches the end of the hall, she turns to face Vilkas’s open door. She can see him in there, clad in plain, cotton slacks and a loose-fitting shirt; his armor is carefully laid out on the small bed, and Mayenor allows herself a moment to take advantage of this rare sneak peek into Vilkas’s private space. She’s always imagined that his space would be neat and uncluttered, so she’s surprised to see various weapons leaning against the walls and alchemy ingredients scattered in the most nonsensical places. There is a dresser across from the bed, and out of this, he’s taking fresh clothes and folding them tightly into his rucksack.

Curiosity sated, she clears her throat and knocks once. He throws a glance over his shoulder and grunts for her to come in. She doesn’t, instead leaning against the doorframe and waiting for him to acknowledge her. After all the indignities she’s suffered at his hands, from being relentlessly hazed as a whelp to his continuing effort to make her life hell, she’s not about to beg for his attention. So she waits, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, for him to deign to speak with her.

After a moment, he pauses in his packing and half-turns, looking at her expectantly. She returns his look in kind, and he sighs.

“Can we _not_ make this any more unpleasant than it already is?” He asks, tone bordering on exasperated. She bristles.

“I don’t know. Ask my _broken ribs_ ,” she retorts, and she knows it’s a childish thing to say, but he always brings out the worst in her.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he rumbles, turning back to his rucksack. “And I apologize.” Mayenor stares at his broad back, stunned into silence. He has never once said anything verging on kind to her, much less apologized for hurting her, and yet this came unprovoked.

“Tell me about this job,” she finally says, deciding to ignore his unprecedented words.

“Bandits in Falkreath. Gotta find the camp and wipe it out. Big reward. We leave at dawn.” He turns around fully for the first time and looks at her without a hint of his usual sarcasm and arrogance. “What else do you need to know?”

“Horses or cart?” She asks, hoping they’re riding to Falkreath on their own. The cart drivers always want to chat and gossip, and she’s rarely in the mood to oblige them.

“Horses,” he answers. “We’ll have to go slow in this heat so they don’t overheat. I plan to make it to Falkreath Hold by nightfall and rent rooms. Tomorrow is all travel, so hopefully no fighting except for the occasional bear or wolf.”

“Fine.” She turns to leave, but he calls out to her to wait.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, and she is visibly taken aback by the apparent sincerity in his words.

“Fine, now. Aela bought a strong healing potion so I’d be healed for this job.” He nods, and Mayenor almost thinks she can see relief in his eyes.

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Yeah…” She agrees dumbly, not sure how to interpret his sudden change of heart.

“Well. See you in the morning, then. Be sure to pack tonight. Don’t worry too much about food; we’ll get the supplies we need when we get there. No sense to load ourselves down for the ride.” He turns his back to her, an obvious dismissal, and she wanders back down the hall to where Ria still sits at the table, awaiting news.

“Well?” She prompts. “Did he apologize?”

“Yes, actually.” Mayenor’s voice is dazed as she continues to puzzle through Vilkas’s actions.

“Oh.” Ria looks surprised. “Well… Good. He should have. So when are you leaving?”

“Dawn.” Mayenor pulls herself from her thoughts to look at Ria, who seems to droop.

“So soon? I was hoping you’d stay around a while longer…” Mayenor almost smiles, feeling an odd, almost maternal fondness for the older girl. It was obvious from the day Mayenor stumbled into Jorrvaskr that Ria is considered a lesser Companion, and Mayenor can understand why: her combat technique is poor, she’s clumsy, and she lacks stealth and restraint. Even so, her determination and eagerness to please makes her useful for small contracts.

“It shouldn’t be a long job,” Mayenor assures her Shield-Sister. “Just a bandit camp in Falkreath. I’ll be back in a few days.” She doesn’t add that, once back in Whiterun, she’ll only stick around long enough to collect her payment for the job before leaving again, though she’s not sure where she’ll go this time. She’s spent the last several seasons in Riften – or, rather, _under_ Riften – and the knowledge that she’s no longer needed there stings. She had thought after taking care of the Mercer problem that she could finally settle down and spend a little time relaxing with her fellow Guild members, but Brynjolf had made it clear that she had served her purpose as far as he was concerned.

Mayenor pulls herself from her thoughts and forces herself to listen to Ria, who is still rambling cheerfully.

“I was thinking that maybe you and I could go hunting together sometime, when you’re not busy,” the brunette was saying, eyes earnest. “Maybe you can help me with my archery? I’m getting better, though; I killed a bear the other day!”

“Really? What’d you do with the pelt?” Mayenor asks, feigning interest.

“Took it to the blacksmith.” Ria proudly tugs at the leather bracers around her wrists. “Had these made. And made a necklace out of one of the claws.” She produces a long, curved claw from under her tunic, holding it out for Mayenor to see.

“That’s a pretty sharp claw,” she says, whistling appreciatively. Ria looks irrationally pleased. “Anyway, I better start packing. Gotta do some shopping in town before I’m ready to set off again. See you for dinner?” She starts toward her bed, intent on gathering her clothes and weapons so she can tend to the necessary repairs. Behind her, Ria is still grinning as she waves a too-energetic farewell.


	3. The Lover's Requital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! This one got done in under a week!
> 
> I actually feel like the actual writing in this chapter is not as good as in the first two, but the more I mess with it, the worse I think it sounds. So I just left it. Hopefully the next chapter will be better.
> 
> Also, the amount of feedback I've gotten from this story is absolutely incredible! I can't tell you all how much I appreciate your support and kind words!
> 
> ♥ topside

He can’t count the number of times he’s heard tourists passing through Whiterun complaining about Skyrim being ‘too cold.’ The khajiit, especially, who he knows are used to deserts and rainforests, claim that Skyrim summers are downright mild. But to Vilkas, born and raised in Whiterun, the midday sun is positively _boiling_.

They’ve spent the majority of their trip travelling along the White River, and the longer they ride by the water’s edge, the more often he glances at it wistfully, longing to strip his heavy armor and go for a swim. He’s already shed as much armor as he dares, but he can’t bring himself to risk losing his heavy iron breastplate and leg armor. Beside him, on a dappled grey mare that Vilkas recognizes as one of Riften’s trademark steeds, Mayenor lounges comfortably in brown leather armor and a matching hood that shades her eyes from the harsh sun.

As the heat begins to grow unbearable, a turn in the road reveals the buildings of Riverwood up ahead, and Vilkas lets out a long breath of relief. Not only is he eager to get inside and cool off, but his growling stomach reminds him that dawn and his breakfast are several hours behind him.

“We’ll stop in Riverwood,” he grunts to Mayenor, breaking the silence that had reigned since they’d left the city. “Get some lunch. Rest the horses.” Mayenor doesn’t answer, just nodding her head to indicate her understanding. Vilkas watches her from the corner of his eye and frowns. She looks completely at-ease, resting in the saddle as though she’s accustomed to spending countless hours on horseback, and he wonders, not for the first time, what exactly she does during her long absences from Jorrvaskr. She’s a little different every time she returns to the mead hall; sometimes a new scar decorates her pale skin, and sometimes a new confidence shines in her green eyes. She’s doing _something_ when she’s not with the Companions, and, if her secrecy is any indication, she’s doing something big.

They tether their horses with the guards’ outside of town, then head for the Sleeping Giant Inn, both walking a bit stiffly as their legs adjust to supporting their weight once more. The town guards nod to Vilkas, recognizing him as a Companion, but the people on the streets ignore him, instead calling greetings to Mayenor, who grins and waves to them. He’s surprised to see her so cheerful and even more surprised to see them so familiar with a girl he hardly knows, despite calling her Shield-Sister.

“May?” Vilkas turns as he hears a woman’s voice from across the stream that winds through the town. As he watches, Mayenor trots toward the lumbermill as another woman runs across the bridge that connects it to the rest of town. The women embrace on the porch of the blacksmith’s shop, and Vilkas, curious, steps over to watch their reunion.

“How _are_ you?” The strange woman asks, holding Mayenor at arm’s length and looking her over, beaming. “It’s been so long! We were afraid something had happened to you…”

“I’m fine, Gerdur,” Mayenor insists, her own smile rivaling her friend’s. “What about you? Bandits still giving you troubles?”

“After you stormed in here and showed them what’s what?” Gerdur laughs. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them!” Mayenor’s friendly smile flicks into a cruel, toothy grin.

“Good. I thought I made myself pretty clear. Now, where’s that idiot brother of yours?”

“‘Idiot’? I’m hurt, May.” Vilkas bristles when a blond man brushes past him and pauses before the women. “I think I’m a fool, at worst.” Mayenor laughs and breaks away from Gerdur to throw her arms around the newcomer’s neck. He hugs her around the waist and lifts her off the ground, spinning her around and making her shriek with surprise.

Vilkas feels his already-sour mood fouling as he watches the exchange. He’s always thought of Mayenor as a mysterious figure, someone that _no one_ knows very much about, and that makes him feel better about the fact that he knows almost nothing about her except that he loves her. But apparently she’s only a mystery to _him_ ; clearly, these people know her better than he’d thought anyone could.

“Who’s your friend?” Gerdur’s giggling question brings Vilkas from his thoughts, and he sees that they’re all looking at him now.

“Vilkas,” he says by way of introduction, offering a hand to the man, who shakes it firmly.

“Ralof,” he supplies, eyeing Vilkas critically. “You look familiar. Have you been through here before?” Vilkas nods.

“A few times, on patrols for the Jarl before he stationed guards here.”

“The Jarl?” Ralof looks surprised. “You’ve friends in high places, then.”

“Vilkas is a Companion,” Mayenor cuts in. “We work together on occasion. Now, Gerdur, I would absolutely _kill_ for some of your frost mirriam tea right about now…” She begins to steer the other woman toward the road, leaving the men to fall into step behind them.

“A Companion, hm?” Ralof muses conversationally as they follow the women past the Riverwood Trader and along a path leading to what Vilkas assumes is Gerdur and Ralof’s home. “You’re lucky to be traveling with Mayenor.”

“You know her well, then?” Vilkas tries to sound casual.

“Aye. She saved my life. I’d be dead and burned in Helgen right now if not for her.” Vilkas looks sharply at the Nord.

“You were in Helgen when the dragon attacked? _She_ was in Helgen when the dragon attacked?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Ralof seems surprised, but after a moment of thought, he shrugs. “I don’t really blame her. I don’t like to talk about it, myself. A thing of nightmares, that was…” He shudders. “The Imperials picked her up near the border to Cyrodiil when they ambushed us. Thought she was a Stormcloak, like us.” The blond’s face darkens as he remembers the day. “She was kneeling in front of the executioner’s block when the dragon showed up. If it had been even a minute later…” He shakes his head and falls silent.

“Are you telling stories back here?” Mayenor stands at the door to the house, and her tone is pleasant, though a glint in her eyes betrays that she’s suspicious of the men’s conversation. Ralof brushes her words away with a wave of his hand and steps through the open door, but Vilkas pauses beside her.

“You never told me you were at Helgen,” he says lowly, and she fixes him with a piercing stare.

“I wasn’t aware we were friendly enough to talk about the good old days,” she retorts, then turns on her heel and stomps into the house. He follows.

The house is smaller than it had seemed from the outside; with the livestock roaming out front, Vilkas had failed to notice that the house was, in fact, little more than a one room shack. Nonetheless, the fire in the hearth and the smell of home cooking makes the small space cozy and inviting, and Vilkas feels oddly comfortable as he settles into a seat at the table. Cheeses and cooked meats are piled in the middle of the table, and Vilkas eyes them hungrily, once again remembering how long it’s been since he last ate. He hopes Mayenor’s reunion with Ralof and Gerdur will be brief so they can hurry to the Inn and get some lunch.

As though sensing Vilkas’s hungry thoughts, Gerdur pushes a wooden plate toward him, gesturing for him to get his share of the food.

“Eat,” she says, pouring what he assumes is the frost mirriam tea Mayenor mentioned into four tankards.

“I couldn’t impose,” he declines politely, and she offers him an appreciative smile.

“Please, I insist. Any friend of May’s is a friend of ours.” Beside his sister, Ralof gives a solemn nod of agreement, and Vilkas only hesitates for a moment before deciding not to mention that he and Mayenor are far from friends. As he spears a salmon steak with his pocket knife, Mayenor helps herself to the siblings’ food, as well.

They eat quickly, and, though Vilkas had been looking forward to a tankard of cold mead, he finds himself surprisingly rejuvenated by Gerdur’s tea – a secret recipe, she’d told him with a wink when he’d mentioned he liked it.

“Oh, you must be _roasting_ in that armor,” Gerdur tsks after she and Mayenor have cleaned up from the meal, eyeing Vilkas with a hand on her hip. “Ralof, get him some of your clothes so he can get out of it for a little while, at least.”

“We won’t be here much longer-” Vilkas begins to protest, but Gerdur cuts him off with a dismissive wave.

“Nonsense. We haven’t seen Mayenor since First Seed. You have to stay for the night.”

“Actually, we need to get to Falkreath by nightfall,” Mayenor says quickly, before Vilkas and Gerdur can get into an argument. “But we’re making good time. A few hours of rest can only do us good.” She looks at Vilkas from the corner of her eye, a catlike grin tugging at her lips. “I’m sure Vilkas will agree.”

He _doesn’t_ agree, and she knows that, but she can also tell that he isn’t eager to face the heat of the day again. After a moment’s indecision, he nods grudgingly, and her triumphant smirk sends a shock of affection through his chest. Jealousy has been clawing at his mind since the moment Ralof and Mayenor embraced, and now, seeing her lounging so comfortably next to the other man, he finds himself struggling not to hate his perceived competition.

“C’mon,” Ralof grunts, standing and stretching with a groan. “Let’s get you something lighter to wear. No need for you to stink up the house with your sweat.” He claps Vilkas on the shoulder, his manner friendly, as he says this, heading to the far corner of the room, where he bends over a chest. Vilkas reluctantly follows him, accepting the cloth tunic and leggings Ralof offers to him. “You can change over there,” he says, jerking his head to a secluded part of the house, where a large bed is tucked away from the main living area.

“Thanks,” Vilkas mumbles, moving over to the bed as Ralof returns to the table. He changes slowly, listening hard to the others’ low conversation.

“So? Tell us about Big and Brooding over there,” Gerdur says, voice barely above a whisper.

“There’s nothing to say. We work together, that’s all,” Mayenor replies, and somehow her candor about their lack of a relationship stings Vilkas’s pride.

“He’s handsome, though, isn’t he?” Gerdur continues.

“And a Companion. It’s nice to see you with someone respectable for once, instead of that smooth-talking Imperial.” Vilkas gets the impression that Ralof isn’t fond of Mayenor’s friend, and he struggles to remember if he’s ever heard any of his Shield-Siblings mention her spending time with an Imperial.

“Whatever happened to him, anyway? We used to see you two riding through here all the time, then suddenly… Nothing.” Gerdur pauses, then continues gently. “Did you two have a fight?”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” The coldness in Mayenor’s voice surprises Vilkas.

“I never trusted him,” Ralof mutters, and Vilkas hears Mayenor sigh.

“Drop it, Ralof.”

“He was always so full of himse-”

“ _Drop it_ ,” she repeats through clenched teeth, and Vilkas emerges on the tense silence that follows.

By the time Mayenor and Vilkas finally manage to slip away from Gerdur and Ralof, the sun is hanging far lower in the sky than when they’d stopped, and the sight puts Vilkas in a foul mood that lasts him for the next few miles of road. It’s not until the road splits, one way leading farther into the Tamrielic wilderness and the other toward the blackened remains of Helgen, that he comes out of his stupor to glance at Mayenor. Her mouth is set in a grim line as she dutifully nudges her mare toward the burned town, and Vilkas maneuvers his own horse to draw even with her.

“We can go around,” he says, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “The road splits again a few miles ahead. We can get to Falkreath that way.”

“That’s a waste of time, and we’re pushing nightfall as it is,” she replies, determinedly avoiding his gaze. “We’ll just ride around the outside of the walls. There’s too much debris to go through the town, even if the gates weren’t locked.” She urges her mount onward and pulls ahead of him as the road narrows into a small dirt path that hugs the town’s wooden walls; Vilkas takes advantage of the silence to peer through the cracks in the walls, catching glimpses of the devastation.

He hadn’t frequented Helgen even when it was intact: he and Farkas rarely left Whiterun and its surrounding areas, and Helgen had never been a particularly attractive destination for them on the occasions they decided to explore their homeland. Nonetheless, they’d passed through the town on their way to Falkreath, much like he and Mayenor were now, and he remembered the settlement as small, but orderly. Now, however, the buildings that had once been home to fierce Nords are lying in charred piles splayed across the cobblestoned roads. Only the keep, which had been built with rocks from the river, remains standing.

Mayenor rides quickly past Helgen, scarcely looking up from her horse’s neck until the town is behind them. Once the road widens again, Vilkas rides beside her once more.

“What was it like?” He asks. Based on Ralof’s reaction when talking about the incident, he knows she’s likely reluctant to relive the attack, but his curiosity gets the best of him. When she jerks her gaze to his, he can tell he should have stayed silent.

“Terrible,” she grunts after a moment. “The whole situation was terrible. First I got picked up by a bunch of soldiers mistaking me for a Stormcloak, then I was nearly executed, only to be saved by a dragon.” Her brows furrow into a frown. “I’d only seen dragons in storybooks as a kid before then, and those old drawings don’t do them justice.” She looks up and locks gazes with him, looking solemn. “They’re much, much worse.”

He doesn’t press the subject. Something in her eyes, in the shadows that darkened her gaze as she recounted her story, warns him that he’s gotten all he will from her. They’ve never had an actual conversation, never swapped war stories, never gotten to know one another, and the fact that she had been willing to share her story with him, however brief it may have been, sends hope creeping across his mind. Most of their interactions begin with an argument and end with a fight; today, seeing her away from Jorrvaskr and out on the open road, he’s beginning to realize that she may not have as many winters under her belt as he does, but she may have experienced just as much in her years.

They don’t speak again until the sky is turning pink with the approaching dusk. It’s been many years since he’s travelled to Falkreath, and he had apparently underestimated the amount of time it would take for them to reach the Hold. Now that night is fast approaching, he’s beginning to feel anxious; there have been reports of vampires attacking travelers as of late, and he doesn’t want to fall victim to one of their raids. He’s about to voice his concern to Mayenor and suggest they ready their weapons when she breaks the silence.

“It’ll be dark before we reach the Hold,” she informs him, steering her horse next to his so they can talk quietly. Apparently she shares his concerns about being attacked. “I know where we can stop for the night. It’s just outside the town, and we’ll be safe there.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead kicking her horse into a trot. He follows her, shoulders tense as he peers into the woods on either side of the road, alert for any sign of danger. After a few minutes, Mayenor guides her horse off the main road, skirting alongside a pond and glancing back to ensure he’s still following. They travel through the trees for a moment longer before emerging in front of a large manor house.

Once they’re past the woods and in the clearing, Mayenor dismounts, leading her horse to the two-horse stable that sits on a hill across from the manor. Dumbly, Vilkas follows, staring in awe at the lavish home.

“Whose house is this?” He asks, moving his horse to occupy the stall next to hers.

“We’ll be safe here,” she replies, not looking at him. “There’s plenty of food and drink inside, and a couple of beds. All without spending Companion coin.” She unbridles her mare as she speaks, placing the tack on a waiting pummel and gesturing for him to do the same. Vilkas grooms his steed quickly, keeping an eye on Mayenor the whole time. The ease and comfort with which she moves around the property makes him suspicious, and Ralof’s earlier comment about her Imperial friend comes into his mind unbidden. The owner of this manor is, without a doubt, wealthy; is he Mayenor’s mystery associate?

They enter the manor without knocking, and Vilkas lingers in the entryway while she moves into the main hall. She ducks through a door to her left, calling for Vilkas to make himself at home. He’s examining a glass sword mounted on the wall when the manor doors open again. A Redguard woman, wearing a cloth hood and holding a line of dripping fish in one hand, enters. As soon as he gaze lands on Vilkas, she drops the fish, pulling dual, curved swords from sheaths before Vilkas can think to react; instinctively, he pulls his own greatsword over his shoulder, falling into a fighting stance.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the Redguard warns, gripping the hilts of her swords tightly.

“I was about to say the same thing,” Vilkas returns, wondering what Mayenor has gotten them into. As if hearing his thoughts, the Nord girl rounds the corner and sees the pair.

“Rayya! There you are!” She sighs, putting a hand on her hip as she eyes the scene before her. The Redguard blinks once, then sheathes her swords and bows her head to Mayenor.

“I didn’t know you were back, My Thane.” Her tone, which had been so threatening only moments before, holds a reverent quality.

“How many times have I asked you to call me by my name?” Mayenor groans. “I was trying to find you so I could tell you I’m here. And I see you’ve already met Vilkas.” She casts a bemused glance at the man, who still stands with his sword drawn. “Put that thing away,” she chides him. “Vilkas, this is Rayya. Rayya, Vilkas. Any questions?”

“ _My Thane_?” Vilkas arches an eyebrow at his Shield-Sister, who averts her gaze from his.

“Milady is Thane of Falkreath,” Rayya supplies. She’s retrieved her fish and now walks past the pair into the main hall, where she stokes the fire under the cooking pot. “And of Riften and Whiterun. I am honored to serve as her housecarl.”

“To be fair, Jarl Balgruuf only made me his Thane because I warned him of the dragon attack,” Mayenor mumbles, fidgeting under the intense stare Vilkas is giving her.

“And then defeated the dragon at the western watchtower,” Rayya retorts, and Mayenor lets out a soft sigh.

“I had no idea of your position.” Vilkas inclines his head toward Mayenor respectfully, and when he looks up once more, she is scowling at him.

“Being Thane doesn’t change who I am,” she informs him, voice laced with annoyance. “If I was a whelp to you before, I should be a whelp to you now. I don’t need or _want_ your phony respect.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Vilkas can see Rayya watching them while she prepares the fish to be cooked, but he hardly notices her. Instead, he fights not to grin at Mayenor, not to pull her into a bone-crushing hug. She’s clearly a more prominent figure in Skyrim than he or any of his fellow Companions had realized, but she’s still the stubborn, willful woman-child that first dared hope to join the warriors of Whiterun.

Mayenor breaks eye contact with him when she apparently hears a noise from the room beyond the main hall. She puts a finger to her lips, indicating for Rayya and Vilkas to be quiet, and draws a dagger from a hidden sheathe under her right sleeve. Silently, she creeps toward the noise, eyes unblinkingly focused. Rayya stands from her position near the fireplace and draws her swords; across the room, Vilkas once again unsheathes his sword, following the women toward the back rooms of the house. He can’t help but think that, considering Mayenor has sworn the house was safe, he’s spending a lot of time with his weapon in-hand.

“What the- _Are you fucking kidding me?_ ” Vilkas and Rayya lunge into the back room when Mayenor’s screech rings out, but Rayya immediately lowers her blades, looking annoyed, when she spots the problem. The back room is small, more of a passageway from the main hall to the next room than anything else, and it holds a small, square table. Seated in one of the chairs is a man with red hair and a bright grin; both women are scowling down at him, but their obvious displeasure only seems to heighten his amusement. As Vilkas watches, he levers himself to his feet and steps toward Mayenor, who folds her arms across her chest and gives him a look of intense irritation. He ignores it, grin softening into a smile that, to Vilkas, seems startlingly affectionate.

“Hello, lass,” he murmurs, stopping a scant few inches in front of Mayenor. “I’ve missed you.”

 

 

 


	4. Pieces of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there's a legitimate chapter coming up, but, in the meantime, I couldn't resist a little one-on-one time between Mayenor and Brynjolf. So, please accept this short pseudo-chapter to hold you over until I get the next real chapter done.
> 
> (To those of you who are Brynjolf fangirls, like me, this is for you.)
> 
> ♥ topside

Mayenor leans against the railing of the balcony at the rear of her house, gazing across the lake with a furrowed brow. Below her, down the hill, she can see the altar that attracts necromancers almost weekly and thinks, for the umpteenth time, that she needs to remove the construct and ward the area against invaders. She gets tired of constantly fighting them off, but she suspects that Rayya enjoys the combat practice while Mayenor is off adventuring. Maybe if she didn’t have the Redguard to depend on, she’d be more concerned about the wizards; with the house under Rayya’s protection, though, she suspects nothing short of the apocalypse could enter the property unbidden.

Nothing, that is, except Brynjolf. 

The thief is lounging against the railing nearby, but his back is turned to the lake; instead, his eyes are fixed on her. She recognizes the look in those eyes, and she yearns to let herself fall prey to the unguarded fondness that shines in his gaze. Divines know she’s succumbed to it time and again, but that had been _before_ Brynjolf used her to rid the Thieves’ Guild of Mercer’s poisonous influence, then dismissed her once her job was done. 

“Are you going to ignore me all night, lass?” His voice is soft, and the lilting accent that sweetens his words sends a tingle of desire across her mind.

“Will you leave if I do?” Even to her ears, the retort lacks malice.

“You don’t want me to leave,” he hums, pushing away from the railing and closing the space between them. He positions himself next to her, so close their thighs share a feather-touch, and drapes a lean arm around her hips. Determinedly, she stares straight ahead, fighting her longing to melt into his embrace and let him have his way with her.

She hates the way he makes her feel. She knows that she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and she knows that she has an instinct, a responsibility, to be in control of whatever situation she faces. But with Brynjolf’s fingers whispering across her skin, she becomes putty in his skillful hands. He can make her do almost anything if he accompanies the request with secret kisses and breathy promises, and he _knows_ it. He uses it to his advantage, and she resents him as much as she craves him.

“What are you even doing here?” She shrugs his arm away and moves from the railing, feeling a cold emptiness where he had been. “And how did you get in? I told Rayya to get new locks…”

“She did.” Brynjolf chuckles. “Have you forgotten my profession so soon, lass?”

“I ordered extremely difficult locks,” she snaps in response. “You may be able to pick normal locks, but these were designed by a thief to use _against_ thieves. _And_ I had Enthir get them enchanted at the College.” Brynjolf nods.

“Aye, he and Vex did a good job. I would never have been able to pick them. Luckily, Vex keeps a key for every lock she encounters.” Smirking, Brynjolf dips his fingers into a pocket in his armor, producing a small, bronze key. Mayenor scowls and lunges for it, but he lifts it out of her reach, taking advantage of her momentum by grabbing her tightly around the waist and pulling her up against him.

“Now, lass, why are you trying to keep me out? That ship sailed long ago…” His voice is a low rumble in her ears, and she feels chills spread adown her arms.

“I only let _friends_ have keys, and since you don’t have _time_ for me anymore…” She wrenches out of his grasp and glowers at him, trying not to notice that she sounds petulant and childish. Brynjolf sighs, lifting a hand to rub his temples.

“Is _that_ why you haven’t been home in so long? Lass, it’s nothing personal. I’ve just had my hands full-”

“Full of a certain Dunmer!” Her shrill accusation surprises them both, and, for a moment, Brynjolf’s calm demeanor slips into an expression of shock.

“Karliah? Lass, what we had ended decades ago, before she even went into hiding.” Mayenor looks away from the redhead, and he lets out a long sigh. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about our relationship…” He steps over to her and takes a gentle hold of her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “That was a long time ago, Mayenor, and it barely meant anything _then_. She always loved Gallus; I was just a distraction when he didn’t have time for her.” Mayenor risks a glance toward him and sees that his lips are twisted into a wry smile. “Same as I am for you, if your friend down there is any indication.”

It takes Mayenor a moment to realize that Brynjolf is referring to Vilkas; when she does, she nearly chokes on a laugh.

“Who, Vilkas? Don’t be an idiot, Bryn. We only tolerate each other because there’s gold in it for us.”

“Aye, _you_ may feel that way.” His voice is serious. “But _he_ does not.” Mayenor resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“You’re paranoid.”

“I know men,” he insists, frowning. “And I don’t trust him.”

“You know _thieves_ ,” Mayenor corrects, shaking her head. “Vilkas isn’t like you – like _us_. He’s all about honor and loyalty. _Your_ intentions may not be pure, but his are. If they even exist, which I doubt.”

“My intentions?” A playful, wicked smirk flickers across his lips, and he steps toward her once more. She knows what’s coming, but she can’t bring herself to move away. “ _Intention_ suggests there’s no guarantee I’ll get what I want, and we both know you won’t say no to me.” He bends to kiss her, but she gathers her willpower and ducks away from him, heading for the door that leads back into the house. She turns the handle, then pauses and looks back at him, a slight frown shadowing her face in the orange light of dusk.

“I do what I please.”


	5. Striking the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, a chapter!
> 
> Now, before you all decide you hate me (which would be entirely justified, considering how long this took me to get up), just know that I'm really sorry to have kept you all waiting. This chapter has been three-quarters of the way done since two days after the last chapter went up, but after a car wreck and an increase in hours at work (boo and yay, respectively), it got put on the backburner for a while.
> 
> So. In order to apologize, I'm posting two chapters in one night! Yay!
> 
> Hope this is worth your wait! Apologies again!
> 
> ♥ topside

Vilkas hasn’t seen much of Mayenor since they reached Lakeview Manor. After they’d discovered the red-haired intruder, she had stormed out the back door of the house, and he, winking at Rayya, had been close on her heels. 

He had wandered back into the main hall with Rayya, who continued preparing the fish, though her cuts were more forceful than before. Vilkas had stayed silent for a long while, brooding about the stranger. Finally, he looks at Rayya.

“Who is that guy?” He asks, trying to sound casual. The Redguard doesn’t look at him, intent on cutting vegetables to go with the fish that is now cooking over the fire.

“Brynjolf,” she answers, and the tone of her voice makes Vilkas think that she doesn’t much like him. “I  _told_ her getting new locks wouldn’t stop him.  _I_ said she should get one of her friends at the College to ward this whole place. It’d help with the giants, too, but  _no_.” Rayya grumbles to herself as though she’s forgotten tha tVilkas is listening intently from across the table. She snorts. “She didn’t really want to keep him out. She just wanted to make a point.”

“They aren’t friends, then?” Vilkas presses, and Rayya looks up at him sharply, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“It’s not my place to talk about Milady’s friends,” she says, voice clipped. “If you have questions, you can ask her yourself.” 

Vilkas doesn’t question her anymore about Brynjolf; he doesn’t need to. Rayya is obviously familiar with him, and he clearly shares some history with Mayenor; his imagination can fill in the missing pieces.

“Where should I put my things?” He asks, standing and grabbing for the rucksack he had brought in with him when they first entered the house. Rayya jerks her chin toward the stairs at his left.

“Up the stairs. There’s two beds on the left side; choose one of them. There’re chests you can store your things in.” 

He ascends the stairs slowly, still deep in thought. He’s learned more about Mayenor today than he’d expected, and all it’s shown him is that he knows  _nothing_ about her. And, what’s worse, there are other people – other  _men_ – who know her better than he can ever hope to. Her relationship with Ralof, at least, seemed like nothing more than a friendship, but it doesn’t take a seer to realize there’s something more between her and Brynjolf. The fact that she wasn’t happy to see him indicates that whatever they had is now in the past, but Vilkas can’t help but wonder if Brynjolf got that message.

As Vilkas reaches the top of the stairs and enters the bedroom, a door at the back of the house slams shut, and he realizes that the hallway behind the bedroom holds a door to what must be a back porch. Mayenor is standing with her back to the door, frowning at the ground, and he resists the urge to ask her what’s on her mind. Before he has the chance to, though, she moves into the room on the right side of the house, then down the stairs to the main hall.

“I’m going down to the lake,” he can hear her tell Rayya.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. I need some time to think.” There’s a moment of silence. “Where’s Vilkas?”

“In the spare bedroom.”

“Good. Don’t let him talk to Brynjolf.” 

Rayya voices an affirmative, and Vilkas can hear Mayenor’s footsteps leading to the back of the house, then the sound of a door opening and closing once more. He lowers his pack onto a bed and begins rifling through it, stripping off his heavy armor with a low sigh of relief and exchanging it for brown breeches and a loose, linen shirt. Below him, he can hear the gentle scrape of metal against wood as Rayya stirs dinner. 

He thinks back to Mayenor’s instructions to keep him away from Brynjolf, and he wonders at her reasoning. For a brief moment, terror squeezes his heart: does she know that he loves her? Is she trying to prevent a fight between her _actual_ lover and a man who yearns to hold that title?

He tries to convince himself that it’s impossible, that if Farkas hasn’t noticed the affection, she couldn’t possibly have. But he can’t shake a sick feeling of dread that’s settled in his stomach, and, suddenly, the air in the manor feels thick and oppressive. He feels like a fool, to love a woman who is the greatest enigma in his life. And now, standing in a home he didn’t even know she had, he feels like he’s nothing more than an intruder in her life.

He moves quickly to the back door and bursts through it, sucking in the fresh air as though he hasn’t breathed in hours. The door leads to a patio that runs along the back and both sides of the house; tucked against the wall to his right is a small table and two chairs, but otherwise, the porch is empty. He takes a few deep breaths and forces his muscles to relax, forces himself to admire the view and forget that he may well be drowning in unrequited love. 

Across the lake, a mountain stretches into the clouds, starkly black against the fuchsia sky, and he can just make out the mammoth shapes of Bleak Falls Barrow against the darkening twilight. The lake stretches on in both directions, nicely shaded by the trees that line the bank, and Vilkas can see a dirt path that meanders down the side of the cliff on which the house sits, leading to the lake. 

With a start, Vilkas realizes that someone is swimming close to the nearest shore; he squints and sees that it’s Mayenor. On the shore, her clothing sits in a pile, serving as a pillow to her sword. His pulse begins to quicken. From this distance, he can’t see the details of her body, but he can imagine her arms slicing through the water, her long legs trailing behind her like ribbons dangling from a package waiting to be unwrapped. He can imagine her hair, which she usually keeps pulled tightly back lest it hinder her in battle, floating around her, framing her face like an aura. He can imagine her hard stomach and thighs and forearms, and he can imagine her breasts,  _soft_ - 

“Enjoying the view?” 

Vilkas jumps and whirls around, hand instinctively rising to grab the hilt of a sword that isn’t there. Brynjolf stands only a few feet away, watching him. Vilkas scowls.

“I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Stealth is particularly useful in my line of work.”

“What are you, a  _thief_?” Brynjolf’s lips twitch into a half-smile, and he offers Vilkas an ironic sort of bow.

“At your service.” It takes Vilkas a moment to realize that the other man is serious. 

“Does she know that?” He doesn’t mention her name, but they both know he’s referring to Mayenor.

“Does she…?” Brynjolf stares at him for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs. Even to Vilkas, the sound is catchy and infectious; nonetheless, he eyes the other man’s exposed Adam’s apple and considers how easy it would be to slit his throat.

“Of course she knows I’m a thief.” Brynjolf is still chuckling, and the grin with which he surveys Vilkas is infuriating. “That’s how we met.”

“You tried to pick her pocket?”

“ _Hardly_.” Brynjolf’s grin turns affectionate as he reminisces. “I caught her stealing jewelry from one of the stalls in the marketplace. Offered her protection. Independent thieves are at a lot of risk; with the Guild, though…” He drifts off and shrugs, but Vilkas is no longer paying attention. 

He, like every other person in Skyrim, has heard the rumors about the Thieves’ Guild’s growing strength. Their influence has always been tangible in Riften, but it has recently spread to neighboring Holds. He’s even heard, once or twice, of guards in Whiterun turning a blind eye to certain peoples’ crimes. The thought that Mayenor is involved with such seedy characters is an affront to his morals, and yet, somehow the news doesn’t surprise him. He doesn’t need to be particularly familiar with her to know that she has a few traits he considers unsavory: she  has a quick temper, and, though he often uses it to his advantage, he knows it’s gotten her into trouble; she possesses a blood thirst unparalleled by even his own beast blood-tainted savagery; her greed, as he realized while watching her shamelessly plunder a pile of corpses in a bandit camp, knows no bounds; and, ifTorvar is to be believed – which he rarely is – she has an insatiable hunger for intimacy. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” 

Vilkas turns his attention back to Brynjolf, who has settled against the railing and watches Mayenor, not even bothering to pretend he isn’t staring.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Vilkas lies, forcing himself to look away from her nude form.

“You don’t fool me, Companion,” the thief laughs, glancing sideways at him. “What are you doing out here if not watching her bathe?”

“Making sure she’s safe.” His response comes too quickly to be believable, and he can see Brynjolf’s smirk stretching wider.

“If you think she can’t take care of herself, you’re a fool.” He shakes his head, eyes shining with a cautious admiration. “I’ve never seen a woman fight as well as that lass. Nor a man, for that matter.” A frown flickers across his face as he says this. “Not  _any_  man.” 

There’s something in the shadow that, for just a second, darkens Brynjolf’s calm demeanor that makes Vilkas think there’s a story behind his words, but he finds that he’s not interested in hearing about the other man’s exploits with Mayenor.

“She still has a lot to learn,” he grunts. “She lacks a lot of technique unarmed. You get rid of her sword, she’s a goner.” Brynjolf’s smirk returns in full force as he eyes Vilkas with a look of what seems to be contempt.

“And you’re her protector, I take it?” His tone is mocking, andVilkas bristles, fists clenching around the porch railing.

“We work together; that’s it.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what she said.” In the blink of an eye, Brynjolf is inches away from Vilkas, and, though the thief is smaller than Vilkas, he feels a cold wariness creep down his spine. 

“I see the way you look at her.” Brynjolf’s voice is rough and low. “You’re good at hiding it, but I see it. You  _want_ her.”

Hearing it voiced, hearing his primal need to hold her summarized so simply, somehow makes it more real to Vilkas, and his dormant affection rages into a possessive infatuation; he scowls at the other man, roughly shoving him back a few steps.

“I don’t recommend getting in my face again,” he growls, and, though Brynjolf doesn’t look intimidated, he has the sense not to move closer once more.

“You want to try with May? Fine, go ahead. Good  _luck_.” The thief’s demeanor, usually so casual and suave, screams a challenge at Vilkas, and he squares his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height. Brynjolf is smaller and probably faster than Vilkas, and he, like Mayenor, is likely to be laden with concealed weapons, but now, with his nonexistent claim on Mayenor threatened, Vilkas is itching for a fight. 

Just then, the door opens, and Rayya steps onto the porch, looking between the men with an annoyed expression. They ignore her, gazes locked in a staring match, until she steps between them.

“Dinner’s ready,” she tells them firmly, and they, reluctantly, flick their gazes to her.

“I’ll get May,” Brynjolf offers, affability returning in the face of someone other than his competitor. He begins toward the side of the house, where stairs lead to the ground, but Rayya cuts him off.

“She’ll come in when she’s ready,” the Redguard informs him, and the warning glint in her eye makes it clear that she, like Vilkas, suspects his lascivious intentions. “Go downstairs.” 

To Vilkas’s surprise, Brynjolf obeys without argument, brushing past Vilkas on his way to the door. Rayya fixes her narrowed eyes on Vilkas.

“You too. Downstairs. I hardly think Milady would appreciate you  _watching_ her.” Vilkas feels heat flood his cheeks, and he scowls, face a mask of indignation.

“I was not  _watching_ her,” he retorts. “And I resent the implication.”

“That was no implication,” she replies flatly, jerking her head toward the door with an expectant look. He does his best not to look like he’s been caught red-handed as he follows Brynjolf through the door.

They eat in silence, and, though Vilkas casts period glances toward Brynjolf, the thief acts as though they never spoke. He looks completely comfortable, lounging at the table in the main hall as if in his own home, and his familiarity with Mayenor’s personal space vexes Vilkas to no end. 

Mayenor returns as Rayya is clearing the table, and Vilkas has to force himself not to stare at her. She’s traded her armor for a plain dress, and her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, the damp locks holding a slight curl. He’s never seen her with her hair down, and he didn’t realize how long it was. Now, seeing it statically cling to her face, her clothes, her collar bones, he can’t help but imagine it haloed around her face as she lay beneath him. 

He looks quickly down at the table, heart racing. He’s fantasized about Mayenor – about holding her and touching her and kissing her – since she first joined the Companions, but he’s rarely had such  _intimate_ thoughts about her save for in the private darkness of his room in Jorrvaskr. He’s never before been overcome with a longing to push her down and bruise her with kisses, just from l _ooking_ at her. But somehow, knowing that he isn’t the only one who wants Mayenor makes him want her that much more. 

“There’s food leftover,” Rayya says, gesturing to the pans resting on the hearth of the fireplace.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” Mayenor replies, and she gives Rayya a friendly smile that causes a stir of irrational jealousy in Vilkas. Rayya frowns, looking concerned.

“You haven’t eaten since midday.” Her tone is almost accusatory, and Mayenor chuckles.

“I’m fine. I had some fruit from the garden before I came in.” Rayya hums, obviously not satisfied with Mayenor’s response, but she lets it go, and Mayenor turns her attention to Vilkas, who cautiously meets her eye.

“We’ll go see the Jarl tomorrow. Don’t bother getting up early; Siddgeir is still hung over until midday, at least.” She snorts, and Rayya purses her lips.

“You shouldn’t talk about the Jarl like that,” the housecarl chides, but her words are met with an indifferent shrug.

“I call it like I see it,” Mayenor says primly.

“I defer to your judgment,” Vilkas interrupts. “You know Falkreath better than I do.” His tone is reverent, reminding her of her title, and she purses her lips.

“Right. I’m pretty sure I know where the bandits’ camp is; Rayya and I had to scare off a few of them before they got the message that this place is not to be bothered. They always seem to come from the northwest, but we’ll have to check with the raid reports to make sure I’m right.” 

“I saw some caves across the lake from Half-Moon Mill,” Rayya supplies helpfully, and Mayenor nods.

“The mountains across the lake are full of caves. I’ve explored most of the ones around here, but I haven’t had much time to map them all out.” She pauses, then smiles at her housecarl. “Maybe you can investigate some of the closer ones while I’m gone? Maybe you’ll figure out where those damned giants are coming from. I swear, if they carry off one more of my cows…”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Though her response is calm, Vilkas can tell that Rayya is eager to explore the caves. She’s obviously a skilled soldier, and he can imagine that being bound to Lakeview Manor often leaves her feeling restless.

“See that you don’t get yourself killed,” Mayenor warns, arching an eyebrow at the Redguard.

“You should take your own advice, lass.” Brynjolf breaks into the conversation with ease, and he smirks at the women as they turn to look at him. “What, did you forget I’m here?”

“I wish I could,” Mayenor snaps, but her irritated tone doesn’t seem to faze the redhead. She scowls and abruptly turns toward the stairs. “You should get some rest, Vilkas. I assume Rayya showed you your bed?” She doesn’t wait for a response, instead pausing on the stairs to look at Brynjolf. “And I trust  _you_  can find your way back to Riften. Goodnight.” And with that, she disappears into her bedroom. 

Vilkas stands from his chair soon after she leaves, mumbling a vague goodnight to Rayya as he ascends to his own bedroom. To his surprise, Brynjolf follows.

“I’m not travelling back to Riften at night,” the thief says, looking affronted, when Vilkas pins him with a suspicious look. “There are vampires out there.” As the pair enters the bedroom, Brynjolf tosses himself onto the empty bed, leaning comfortably against the pillows. “You don’t mind sharing a room for the night, do you?” Vilkas’s eyes narrow into a venomous glare, and Brynjolf chuckles. “Didn’t think so. Sleep well,  _Companion_.” Somehow, Vilkas’s title sounds like an insult rolling off the thief’s quick tongue. 

Vilkas makes a point of ignoring the man as he extinguishes the lights and slips into bed, and, with the darkness blanketing him, his mind begins to drift. He tries to think about the task ahead, to review what he knows of the Falkreath terrain so he can guess what they’ll be facing tomorrow, but his thoughts keep lingering on the fact that Mayenor is in bed mere feet from him. Even on the odd occasions she stays at Jorrvaskr, she’s always down the hall, surrounded by Njada and Ria on one side and Torvar and Athis on the other. But here, she’s alone, so close that he fancies he can hear her breathing in the quiet darkness.

For a wild moment, he considers joining her in bed. It would be so easy to slip into her room and get under the covers with her, to pull her hard up against him and quiet her with kisses before she even has time to question him, to finally lose himself in her as he’s longed to do since he first laid eyes on her golden hair and stubborn chin.

He almost doesn’t hear Brynjolf creep out of bed and sneak past into the hallway that runs between the bedrooms. He almost misses the thief’s airy chuckle and gloating pause; he almost doesn’t realize that Brynjolf  _wants_ to be heard. He  _wants_ Vilkas to see him; he wants him to know that Mayenor already belongs to someone else.

By the time Vilkas thinks to confront the other man, he’s already padded down the short hall and turned the corner. Vainly, Vilkas strains to hear some sign of an argument, some indication that Mayenor doesn’t want him in bed with her. Instead, he hears the quiet murmur of a conversation; trying to ignore the knot in his stomach, he blocks his ears with the pillow and forces himself into an uneasy sleep.


	6. Whispers in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the second chapter of the night! 
> 
> I'll do my best to get back to updating on a relatively regular schedule. These chapters are dragging a little for me because I'm really eager to move on to the next/main part of the plot. Hopefully, though, I can get the next few whipped up pretty quickly.
> 
> Also, I'm sad to say this will probably be the last chapter to exclusively feature Brynjolf. That said, I hope all you Brynjolf fangirls out there enjoy him as much as I do!
> 
> Thanks to all my readers!
> 
> ♥ topside

In her bedroom, Mayenor reads in the glow of a Mage Light spell. He slips in unnoticed, she too absorbed in her book to hear the whisper-soft touch of his feet against the stone floor. She doesn't look up until the bed moves with the weight of him sitting, and she greets him with a fistful of flames. He puts his hands up, palms out, in surrender, face sporting a lopsided grin; slowly, she extinguishes the flames, giving him an annoyed look.

“You shouldn't sneak up on me,” she chastises, but her tone lacks malice.

“You should pay more attention to your surroundings,” he responds, voice chiding. “If I had been an assassin, you'd be dead.”

“If there was an assassin in my house, he'd already have killed everyone else. And if he got through Rayya and Vilkas, I had no chance, anyway,” she retorts.

“What, you don't consider me a challenge to kill?” He feigns offense.

“You're best when your opponent doesn't know you're there. Fair fights aren't your strong point”" Her words are clipped, and he sighs, knowing she's still upset with him.

“Do you really think I'm sleeping with Karliah?” He asks, and she purses her lips, shutting her book with a snap.

“I don't know what to think,” she admits, standing to replace her book in one of the bookshelves that lines the wall beside her bed. Instead of returning to the bed, she leans against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. “What am I  _supposed_  to think? Ever since you picked me off the street, you've barely left me alone. And now that the Guild's up and running again, you don't have time for me anymore, but you're always at Nightingale Hall 'consulting' Karliah. It's like you only wanted me around so I could get rid of Mercer, and now that that's done, I've served my purpose.”

“Lass, I didn't even know Mercer needed getting rid of when I invited you to join the Guild. All I knew was you were a gutsy thief, if reckless. I thought you could help us pull off some impressive jobs so we could get our name back out there; I never expected you to overthrow the Guild Master and reveal a decades-old conspiracy.” His words are wry, but he softens, hesitating. “And I certainly didn't intend for  _this_  to happen.” He gestures between them, indicating that he means their relationship.  
  
“And you don't intend for it to go anywhere.” It's a statement, not a question, and she arches an eyebrow expectantly, clearly daring him to contradict her.

“I don't know what I intend. I never thought to settle, and you're certainly not the settling type.”

“You could travel with me.” She almost cringes at the clear desperation in her words; she wants, more than anything, for him to pull her close and promise he'll never leave her side. Instead, he frowns.

“And where would that leave the Guild?”

“I don't know. I don't care! Your life doesn't  _have_  to revolve around the Guild.”

“You want it to revolve around you, instead?” Though his words are gentle, she looks away, stung.

“I'd like to have a place in your life, at least. I think I've earned that.” She looks up as he twines his fingers with hers, tugging her toward the bed. Grudgingly, she allows him to pull her down, and he leans against the headboard, folding her tightly into his arms.

“You do have a place in my life,” he murmurs. “More than I'd like, to be honest. It doesn't do for a professional thief to let something become more important than survival, but... When that chamber started flooding and Karliah and I got out, when I realized you weren't there... I thought for sure Mercer had managed to hold you down there with him. I thought he'd somehow beaten you and escaped. I thought... May, I thought I'd lost you.” As he speaks, he tightens his hold on her, and she finds herself finally unable to resist him. She leans into him, tucking her head in the crook of his neck; he presses a kiss into her hair.

“What does that mean, then?” She asks after a moment, cursing herself for letting him lure her back in while simultaneously ignoring the desperate fluttering of her stomach.

“It means I love you, lass,” he chuckles, and she feels her pulse skyrocket.

“That... That's not what I meant,” she mutters, knowing he expects her to return his declaration. “Are you going to travel with me?”

“The Guild-” he begins, but she cuts him off, angry.

“You have to choose, Bryn. You have to choose me or the Guild. I can't be tied to Riften; I have—other responsibilities."

“With the Companions?” His tone is accusatory, and she scowls, jerking out of his grasp.

“I joined them before I joined the Guild,” she retorts. “If anything, they deserve more loyalty than you.”

“Don't, lass,” he sighs, taking her hand. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I just... I don't like the idea of you being with another man, even if it's just for jobs.”

“I told you there's nothing between us.” She rolls her eyes, returning to his arms. “And you wouldn't have to worry if you'd travel with me.”

“Lass...”

“I was serious, Bryn. I can't stay with the Guild permanently. You knew that when I joined.”

“Fine, don't be tied to the Guild. Just to me.”

“I can't commit to you if you won't commit to me,” she argues. “If you stay in Riften, you'll get so wrapped up in Guild business that I'll be an annoyance when I do come back. You know that as soon as we stop spending so much time together, this is going to fall apart.” She pauses, and when he doesn't say anything, she sighs. “You have to choose, Bryn. I'm not staying in Riften; you have to decide if you are.”

The next several minutes stretch in heavy silence, and she presses against him, trying to reconcile the fact that this may be her last chance to be with him. She's loathe to force him into a decision, terrified he'll choose not to be with her; a secret part of her, though, hopes he'll do just that. She's always enjoyed the freedom her adventuring life provides, and the thought of having something -- some _one_  -- binding her to a particular place sends terror ripping through her chest.

“If you have to think that much,” she says after a while, breaking the silence, “I think your answer's pretty clear.”

“Lass.” The word comes out as a breathy rasp, and she recognizes the desire cloaking his voice; it sends chills down her spine.

“Don't think you can distract me with sex,” she berates him, weakly. Already she feels the familiar tingling numbness spreading from where their bodies touch; she knows she's at his mercy now.

“I'm not.” His gravelly chuckle makes her breath catch in her throat. “Can't we talk about this is the morning, though? I've missed you so much...” His fingers, thin and nimble, whisper across her collar bones; his lips press against her temple. Before she knows what's happening, he's lifted her into his lap, and she's straddling him, his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her lips down to meet his. There's no doubt that she possesses more brute strength than he, but, when his breath mingles with hers, she feels weak as a child.

“Bryn,” she gasps as he fumbles with the lacing up the back of her dress.

“Mmm?” He hums, kissing the junction between her neck and shoulder.

“Please-” Her mind fogs as the thin fabric of her dress gives and his hand slips onto the exposed skin in the dip of her spine.

“Please what?” His breath is hot in her ear.

She wants to tell him to stop, to give her an answer because she's not there for his entertainment, to demand he stop seducing her to avoid conversations he finds distasteful. But, as he slips her dress off her body with alarming skill, and as his hips jut up to ghost against hers, all she manages is a soft moan.

“Kiss me,” she begs, and she barely catches a flash of his grin before he throws her onto the mattress beside him and rolls over to cover her body with his own. His lips explore every inch of her, revisiting the familiar crevices of her curves while she writhes with agonizing desire; he lingers on her thighs, and she lifts her hips toward him, silently begging him to make her squirm and cry out with ecstasy. He chuckles gruffly and sits back on his haunches, surveying her bare form with an expression of odd pride.

“It's nothing you haven't seen before,” she grunts, wriggling her hips in a vain attempt to find the friction she longs for.

“That doesn't make it any less beautiful,” he retorts, running his hands up her stomach and cupping her breasts gently. As his thumbs rub circles around each nipple, she bites her lip against a groan, arching her back into his touch; grinning, he leans forward to brush his lips against the hardened bundles of nerves, eliciting a whine of pleasure. He pulls back, earning himself a venomous glare.

“I hate you,” she snarls, and he throws back his head with a throaty laugh. She takes advantage of his distraction to pop the buttons on his trousers, catching him by surprise. He doesn't argue as she slides them down his hips, leaning back to strip off his shirt. Once bare, he falls back on top of her, pushing her legs apart with a knee pressed to her groin. She spreads them eagerly, fisting her hands in his long hair and holding his lips against hers, impatiently awaiting his presence between her legs. He roughly separates his lips from hers, just a hair, and fiercely connects their gazes.

“Take it back.”

“What?” She asks, startled and annoyed by his hesitation.

“Say you don't hate me.”

“Of course I don't, Bryn.” She bucks her hips toward him, insistently, but he lifts away.

“I love you, May,” he breathes; she looks away from his sincerity, but he grips her chin tightly and forces her to look at him. “Tell me you love me too.”

“I—I thought we were going to talk about this in the morning,” she stammers, squirming again, this time from discomfort.

“You don't.” The disappointment in his voice sends a pang of guilt through her heart, and she tries to make herself tell him that he means the world to her, that she cares about him just as much as he cares about her.

But she can't.

Instead, she sits up and cups his face in her hand, leaning her forehead against his and looking deeply into his dark eyes.

“You know how I feel about you,” she murmurs, and kisses him; even as he kisses her back and finally gives her the release she's been craving, she knows that isn't the answer he wanted.


	7. The Hunt

He wakes up shortly after dawn, habit forcing him into consciousness though he tossed and turned all night. As soon as he opens his eyes, he turns his head to look at the other bed, willing Brynjolf to be there.

He isn't, and Vilkas scowls. He can imagine the thief, lean body curled around Mayenor, her head resting on her shoulder and her tousled golden hair tickling his cheek. He can almost see the smirk ghosting Brynjolf's lips even as he sleeps, and the image makes Vilkas clench his jaw in jealous fury. It takes all his willpower not to storm into the room and rip the redhead from Mayenor's bed; instead, he marches to the back door and yanks it open, slamming it shut behind him as he steps onto the porch, quietly hoping that the noise will jar Brynjolf awake.

The morning air is refreshingly cool against Vilkas's anger-heated face, and he breathes it in, trying to calm his racing heart. He's always been fond of Mayenor, but this new desperate possessiveness over her almost frightens him, and that unfamiliar fear only makes him even angrier about the whole situation.

He forces himself calmer, crossing to the porch at the left of the house, where Mayenor has set up a small training area, complete with an archery target and a straw practice dummy. From a chest against the wall, he takes a greatsword, testing its weight. It's old and slightly rusted, but the balance is good, and he hoists it over his head, slashing experimentally. It's heavier than the sword Eorlund forged for him, and the weight surprises him; he stumbles, catching himself against the wall.

He wonders why Mayenor keeps the sword in her collection; it's so heavy, he can't imagine she's able to wield it. Then, he remembers Brynjolf's claim from the night before, that she's the best fighter he's ever met, and he wonders if there's more to the girl than she's let him see, if she's hiding her true strength from the Companions. If she is, he thinks bitterly, it won't be the first thing she's kept from them.

He steps away from the wall and grips the greatsword once more, squaring himself in front of the training dummy. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes, focusing his mind on training with the ease of practice. He's spent the last two decades honing his two-handed skill, and now it's become an almost therapeutic activity for him.

He fights with the training dummy for over an hour before replacing the greatsword in its chest and heading down to the lake for a quick bath. When he returns, it’s halfway to midday, and the air is already growing thick and hot. He reenters the house on the main level, expecting to find Mayenor eating breakfast and getting ready to confront the Jarl. Instead, Rayyasits alone at the large table, polishing her curved swords.

“Where's Mayenor?” Vilkas asks, plucking an apple from a bowl on a side table.

“Still asleep, I assume.” Rayya's voice is low and dry, and Vilkasrealizes that she knows Brynjolf spent the night with Mayenor. Vilkas swallows the rising wave of jealousy that threatens to overcome him as he once again imagines the pair intertwined upstairs.

“We need to get on the road. The Jarl is expecting us.” He glances up the stairs toward Mayenor's bedroom, grimacing unconsciously. “I should wake her...”

“I'll do it,” Rayya offers, standing and returning her sword to its sheath on her hip. Vilkas nods his appreciation, wondering if she can see his relief.

 The housecarl ascends the stairs with a grim look on her face, shoulders squared as she heads into Mayenor's bedroom. At the table, Vilkas tries not to imagine the sight she's walking into.

He expects to see Brynjolf swagger from the room, looking smug, but minutes pass and the thief doesn't emerge. Instead,Mayenor bursts from the room, shoulders bare over the blanket that's wrapped around her slim form. She's frowning as she stomps down the stairs, ignoring Vilkas, who watches her search both the armory and the greenhouse before whirling to face him.

“Where is he?” She demands, glowering at him.

“Who?”

“Brynjolf!” She says, tone suggesting he should have known that. Vilkas looks surprised.

“I thought he was still upstairs.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Mayenor curses, brow creasing in what appears to be worry. “Maybe he's outside...” She murmurs to herself, then turns on her heel and hurries bare-footed into the entryway; Vilkas, curious, follows her.

She's about to open the front door when she notices a small piece of parchment hanging from the wood. She pauses and rips it from its mooring, snapping it open so forcefully in her haste that she nearly rips it at the seam. As the paper unfolds, a small key clatters to the stone floor.

_Lass,_

_I had to go home. We'll talk later, when things have settled. This is the only copy of your key Vex or I has. You know where to find me when you decide you want me to have it back._

_Brynjolf_

Vilkas watches Mayenor's face grow stony as she reads the note, sees her shoulders tense and her grip on the parchment tighten. Her eyes close briefly once she finishes, and she crumbles the paper into a ball. He eyes her fist warily as flames flicker into life in her palm, reducing the parchment to ashes. He, like most Nords, distrusts magic, and he's always uneasy when Mayenor uses hers around him.

“Is everything alright?” He ventures after a moment of still silence; her eyes snap open, and she opens her palm to let the ashes flutter to the ground.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she answers shortly, bending to retrieve the key that had fallen from the note; he can't bring himself to look away from the expanse of leg exposed by the blanket shifting around her.

“Then we need to get to Falkreath. The Jarl is expecting us.” His tone is business-like, and he hopes it distracts from an excitement he's sure is visible. He needn’t worry; she doesn’t even spare him a glance as she pads back up the stairs, gripping the key tightly and frowning into space.

She returns a few minutes later, and Vilkas has to repress a smile when he sees her clad in her armor once more, her hair pulled back and hidden beneath her hood. As beautiful as she had been in plainclothes (and as beautiful as he’s sure she is in no clothes at all), she looks most like herself in dusty, blade-nicked leather.

“Let’s go,” she says simply, not meeting Vilkas’s eye as she heads for the door. As she passes into the entryway, Rayyaemerges from the back of the house and moves to step in front of her.

“Eat,” she insists, thrusting a sweet roll into her hands. Mayenor opens her mouth to protest, but the stubborn set of Rayya’s jaw silences her.

“Thank you,” she says instead, accepting the sweet roll with an appreciative smile. “I’ll eat it on the road. Here.” She rummages in one of the pockets dotting her tunic and pulls out the key from earlier. “Keep this safe.”

“What’s it to?” Rayya asks, turning the key over in her hand. For a moment, a shadow crosses Mayenor’s face, but she hides it quickly.

“The house. It was Brynjolf’s.”

Vilkas feels his heart jump into his throat at these words. He had assumed, since Mayenor didn’t immediately evict Brynjolf the night before, that the thief had stayed the night with her. But at this realization, he allows himself to hope that he was wrong.

Even Rayya looks surprised as Mayenor drops the key into her palm and shoulders her way past the housecarl and through the front door. After a moment, the Redguard regains her composure and puts the key in a pocket before turning to Vilkas.

“Make sure she eats,” she says sternly, and he can’t help but smile. “I’m serious. She won’t if you don’t make her. And watch her back with those bandits.”

“She can handle herself,” he reminds her, and she frowns.

“Just because she  _can_ doesn’t mean she  _should._ ”

“We’ll be fine,” he assures her, and she nods tersely; without another word, he follows Mayenor out the door. 

Mayenor is true to their word; it takes them almost no time at all to get to Falkreath from Lakeview Manor. As they ride into town, the guards bow their heads to Mayenor as she passes; she ignores them, instead glancing around the town, almost like she’s making sure everything is in order. Apparently placated, she dismounts next to a long, wooden building and hands her horse over to a waiting guard. Vilkas follows suit.

“Keep them saddled,” she instructs the guard. “We won’t be long.”

“Yes, my Thane.” The guard’s reverent tone sends a look of irritation across Mayenor’s face.

“Right. Is Siddgeir in?” The guard nods an affirmative, and she gestures for Vilkas to follow her up a short set of steps and into the building.

The inside of the longhouse is nothing special: stairs line either side of the building, and a large firepit monopolizes the space directly in front of the door; beyond that lies the Jarl’s throne. A young man, only a few years older than Mayenor, if that, lounges on the throne, looking rather bored. He looks up as they enter, and his face brightens.

“Ah, Mayenor, you’re here. I had hoped Aela would send you,” he purrs. Though his words are chatty and familiar, his tone makes it clear he considers Mayenor little more than an errand girl.

“I was the logical choice to come.” Her voice is cold; Vilkas wonders what Siddgeir has done to garner her disapproval.

“Of course, of course,” the Jarl agrees, flapping a bejeweled hand dismissively. “And who’s your burly friend?”

“This is Vilkas, a senior member of the Companions,” she answers before Vilkas can speak for himself.

“Ooh, you’ve got yourself a little assistant now? I knew you had to get lonely, being on the road all the time. Of course, my offer of a warm bed and a little fun still stands…” He drifts off with one eyebrow quirked, and Vilkas bristles, feeling his shoulders tighten as he readies to defend Mayenor’s honor. She shoots him a look of bemused amusement before addressing the Jarl once more.

“A tempting offer, I’m sure, Siddgeir. But right now we’re here about the bandits. I assume you mean the ones coming from the northwest?”

“Are they coming from the northwest?” He asks, looking genuinely surprised. “I haven’t even looked at the reports. I’ll have Nenya bring them to you.” He turns his head to locate his steward, but she’s already slipped off into the war room under the stairs.

“We’ll look them over in the war room,” Mayenor replies, following the Altmer woman.

The war room is typical by the Jarls’ standards, though Siddgeir’s, while clean and polished like the rest of the longhouse, is obviously little-used. Nenya retrieves a sheaf of parchment from a drawer and places them on the war table for Vilkas and Mayenor to look at.

“They’re in chronological order, with the first attacks on top and the most recent ones on the bottom,” she informs the pair, and Mayenor nods, gracing her with a smile.

“Thank you, Nenya.”

“Of course, my Thane. Will you require anything else?” Nenya’s stiff formality never falters in the face of Mayenor’s friendly praise. Mayenor begins to shake her head, then glances at Vilkas.

“Some mead, please. Blackbriar Reserve, if you have it.”

“Certainly.” With a nod, the Altmer retreats to the main room of the longhouse. Vilkas gives Mayenor a curious look.

“I thought you didn’t like mead?” He says, and she shrugs, already beginning to lay out the raid reports.

“I developed a tolerance for Blackbriar Reserve while I was in Riften,” she tells him distractedly.

“Riften? What were you doing there?” Vilkas knows what Brynjolf has told him, that she is part of the Thieves’ Guild, but he wants to hear it from her own mouth. She looks up at him, sharply, and a minute frown tips down the corners of her mouth.

“Business,” comes her flat reply, and she turns her attention back to the raid reports, pointing to one in particular to draw his attention to it. “Look,” she says, “this is from the first attack. And here, and here—” she points to several more reports, “these are all from the beginning, concentrated around the Shrine of Akatosh. The raids were all around that area for the first few weeks, then the spread out across the Hold.”

“They must have been feeling out their territory,” Vilkas says, moving beside Mayenor to look at the reports for himself. “If there was a map of the Hold around here-” He stops as Nenya returns with a tray laden with a pitcher and two cups.

“Blackbriar Reserve, as you requested, milady,” she intones, setting the tray down on a nearby table. “Did I hear you’re in need of a map of the Hold?”

“Aye, it’d be a great help,” Vilkas agrees, and the Steward opens another drawer and withdraws a large sheet of parchment, which she spreads over the war table. Four decorative stones are places on each corner to act as paperweights. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” She asks once she’d done, cool eyes flicking between the Companions. Vilkas eyes her a bit warily: like all Altmer, Nenya has the same air of closed superiority that had made the Altmeri Dominion so threatening.

“We’re fine, thank you,” Mayenor assures her. She waits until Nenya passes through the doorway before turning her attention to the map. “I don’t trust her,” she confides quietly, flicking her gaze sideways toward Vilkas. “Or Siddgeir, for that matter.”

“Then how did you become his Thane?” Vilkas asks in return, moving closer so they can converse more softly.

“It was a matter of strategy,” she explains. “I needed Falkreath to be somewhere I could pass through safely. The easiest way to do that was to get in the Jarl’s good graces.” He looks at her, curious and a bit suspicious.

“Why do you need to pass through Falkreath so often? Most of the major Holds are up north.” She gives him another of her calculating looks, green eyes narrowed.

“Business,” she repeats in the same flat, final tone she’d used before. He bites back a sigh, knowing she’s not likely to tell him her secrets. So, he bends to pore over the map.

It doesn’t take long for them to mark all the bandit raids on the map, and Vilkas can see now that Mayenor had been right. The attacks were clearly done in a sweeping pattern originating from a single point: an unmarked bit of forest halfway to Rorikstead. They double-check their findings one more time before rolling up the map and stowing it in Mayenor’s rucksack; then, they head for the door, ignore Siddgeir as they leave.

 “Gone so soon?” Siddgeir calls after them. “You haven’t even had lunch!”

“We’ll have to take a raincheck, Siddgeir,” Mayenor replies over her shoulder as Vilkas holds the longhouse door open for her. “We’ve got some bandits to kill.” The sickeningly feral grin she flashes startles even Vilkas.


	8. Before the Storm

It started to rain halfway to the area they’d marked on the map. By the time they were ready to leave the path and delve into the woods, the sky had darkened to a murky grey, the sun hidden behind an impenetrable wall of thick, angry clouds. Together, they dismount their horses at the edge of the forest, huddling close to their mounts for some meager warmth.

“It’s too thick to get the horses through,” Vilkas grunts, mood souring as he feels a drop of water trailing down his spine. Despite his heavy, fur-lined armor, his underclothes are soaked and plastered to his skin.

“Then we’ll tie them up here and I’ll set some warding spells,” Mayenor snaps in reply. She’s just as irritable as Vilkas, and she’s fared rather worse than he: her light leather armor has been thoroughly soaked and hangs heavily on her shoulders; her hood had blown back in the wind at some point in the ride, and her golden hair drips water into her eyes. Vilkas can’t help but think, even with her shoulders hunched against the wind and her arms crossed over her chest, that she looks somehow ethereal in the rain, like some damp goddess caught away from her shrine.

She dismounts quickly and leads her mare under the cover of the trees, muttering what sounds to Vilkas like an apology for leaving her in the rain. He dismounts as well and follows her until they find a particularly dense cluster of trees, where they tie up their mounts. He steps back and watches in cautious awe as she walks in a circle around the beasts, leaving a shimmering trail behind her. When she completes the circle, the trail glows bright for a moment, then disappears. She nods, satisfied, and turns to face Vilkas.

“Let’s go. The sooner we get out of this rain, the better. I’d kill for a nice campfire right now…” She grumbles darkly and turns in the supposed direction of the bandit camp, setting off without checking that Vilkas follows. He does, closely, and tries to focus on the task ahead. But he can’t; instead, his head is filled with visions of Mayenor huddled by a fire, hugging her knees to her chest, and he resting beside her, holding her close to his chest in an attempt to warm them both up. At the moment, he’d kill for a campfire, as well.

It doesn’t take them long to find the bandits’ camp: they can hear it—and worse, _smell_ it—before it even comes into view. As they slow to a crawl and crouch low in the underbrush, Vilkas sees Mayenor wrinkle her nose in disgust at the distinctive odor of the camp, a mix of rotting flesh and unwashed sweat. They reach the top of a hill, and she suddenly drops to her stomach in the grass; almost immediately, he follows suit, inching along on his belly to draw even with her. He can see now why she stopped: the spiked wooden walls of the camp jut into the air above them.

“How do you want to handle this?” She whispers, turning to face him. His breath catches for a moment when he realizes their faces are mere inches apart. “It looks like they’ve got archers posted along the walls, and I’m sure there are men guarding the entrance to the camp. Neither of us is particularly skilled with a bow, so the stealthy approach seems most logical.” She eyes him a bit dubiously. “Assuming you know how to be stealthy…”

“Of course I can be stealthy,” he replies in a heated whisper, scowling. “But I don’t like the idea of taking them all on without the element of surprise.”

“Look at the size of the camp,” she scoffs. “There can’t be more than a dozen in there. We kill the guards at the entrance quietly so no one notices, then get on the walls and kill the archers. Then we can deal with whoever’s left. No problem.” Vilkas frowns.

“It’s not that easy,” he protests. “We don’t know if there’s a building in there. There could be a barracks in there with dozens of men, or a cave full of reinforcements. We can’t go in there blind.”

“Well then what do you want to do?” She snaps, exasperated. “Knock on the front door? ‘Oh, hello! We’re new to the neighborhood and wondered if we could borrow a head of cabbage,’” She rolls her eyes at him, and he nearly growls with frustration.

“If you’d _shut up_ for a moment,” he snarls, “I have an idea.” Quirking an eyebrow, she gestures for him to elaborate. “We need a distraction. Don’t you know a spell that’d be useful?”

“I could conjure a familiar,” she replies, looking thoughtful. “But it’d be obvious it’s magic, and they’d get suspicious. We’ll have to use something real…” She drifts off, eyes narrowed in thought. Vilkas feels an uneasiness creep into his gut as he notices a dangerous spark in her eyes.

“What?” He asks suspiciously. She purses her lips for a moment, then apparently makes up her mind.

“I’ll be the distraction,” she says.

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s the obvious answer,” she croons. He recognizes that voice as the one she uses when she’s trying to get her way. “Bandits are known for kidnapping women. I pretend to be lost, they take me into the camp, and while they’re all busy paying attention to me, you can sneak in and start taking them out. Once you bring me my sword, I’ll help.”

Vilkas starts shaking his head before she even finishes her explanation.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too dangerous. You could be killed before I get to you.” She scowls.

“I know you don’t think I’m a very good fighter, but I can handle myself just fine. If it comes down to it, I’ll use my magic.”

“This isn’t about your skill,” he sighs. “Those are bad men in there. How do you know they won’t attack you on sight?”

“If they do, I’ll just lead them back to you and we’ll kill them away from their camp. This is the best option we have, and you know it.” Vilkas doesn’t answer her, instead imagining all the ways this plan could go wrong. They could shoot an arrow through her throat as soon as they saw her on the roar. They could gut her when she stumbled toward the entrance to the camp. They could tie her up with ropes and take her to a torture room. Or, worst of all, they could throw her into a room and have their way with her again, and again, and again…

“No,” he says again, more firmly this time. “ _No_. I’m responsible for your safety, and I won’t let you do this.”

“You’re not responsible for shit,” she snarls, “and I don’t need your _permission_. This plan makes the most tactical sense. This is the plan we’re going with.”

Before he can respond, she eases her way back down the slope and out of the camp’s line of sight. He follows quickly, determined to talk her out of this ludicrous plan. Once he scrambles down the hill, he reaches to catch her arm.

“This is a terrible idea,” he tells her, trying not to make it obvious that he’s terrified of her getting hurt.

“But it’s the only idea we have,” she replies seriously. “I can take care of myself even without my sword.” She pauses, then looks him full in the eyes. “And I trust you. I know you’ll watch my back.” She pulls away and continues into the woods, but he’s stuck, frozen in place. Her words echo in his mind: _I trust you_. He’s longed for some show of affection, some sign that she doesn’t hate him, and he’s almost positive he’s never heard her say that to anyone else, even Aela. And, though his mind screams that he’s an idiot for letting her have her way, he follows her.

When he catches up to her, she’s kneeling on the muddy ground, rooting through her rucksack.

“I have some civilian clothes in here somewhere,” she tells him distractedly, elbow-deep in the seemingly bottomless bag.

“You have to take _some_ weapons in,” he replies.

“I have a pocket knife and a hunting bow. I’m just a hunter trying to feed her family.” She doesn’t mention his sudden acceptance of her plan; she’d known he would come around.

“I’m not sure you can pull off looking harmless,” he grunts, and she looks up for a moment to eye him, unsure if he’s trying to be funny.

“You’d be amazed,” comes her answer. She yanks her hand out of the bag, producing a faded blue dress and a pair of worn but sturdy boots. Before he can comment on her odd preparedness, she disappears behind a thick tree.

“I’m still not fond of this plan,” he calls after her, resisting the temptation to see what _else_ she keeps in that bag of hers.

“Stop worrying.” Even from behind the tree, her voice carries a hint of exasperation. “You’re underestimating me; that’s a dangerous mistake.”

“I’ve fought with you before,” he reminds her. “And even the strongest fighter can be outnumbered.” The rustling behind the tree comes to a stop, and a moment later, Mayenor emerges in the dirty dress, her armor neatly folded in her arms. She gives him a lopsided smile.

“You best be careful, Companion,” she tsks, bending to store her armor in the rucksack. “We wouldn’t want it to seem like you’re worried about me.”

“It’s my duty as your Shield Brother to ensure your safety,” he grunts, shifting uncomfortably. “And I’ll never hear the end of it if Aela finds out I let you get yourself killed.”

“Then I’ll be careful,” she says definitively, snapping shut her bag and rising to her feet. “We wouldn’t want to give Aela any _more_ reason to bitch.”

He just stares at her then, drinking in her presence as eagerly as any man wandering the deserts of Elsweyr might drink water. She looks alarmingly small now, with her bulky armor traded in for a form-fitting, worn dress. Her greatsword lies at her feet, and without it strapped to her back, and with her wet hair freed from its tight bun, she appears to him for the first time as a little girl. She’s skinnier than he’d thought, and shorter without the thick soles of her boots to add an extra inch. He looks at all the skin exposed by her dress—her arms, her neck, her ankles, her face—and realizes how effortlessly a skilled archer could plunge an arrow deep into her unprotected flesh. He considers how easily the thin dress would give way to the bandit men’s wandering hands. He wishes he was clever enough to think of another plan before everything goes wrong.

“Take my bag.” She thrusts the leather sack toward him, and he dumbly accepts it. “Make sure you bring it with you. It’s got all sorts of things to help us out if we get in a spot of trouble. And don’t forget this.” She grips the hilt of her greatsword tightly for a moment before offering it to Vilkas. He straps it to his back, next to his own weapon.

“Do you have your bow and knife?” He asks. He can feel his throat tightening as the realization of what’s about to happen sets in. She nods. If she’s nervous, she hides it well. “Arrows?”

“Of course I’ve got arrows,” she snorts. “What hunter worth her catch would carry a bow and no arrows? Stop acting like my mother and let’s get going.”

They search the woods for the path the bandits must use to get supplies to their camp. They hover on the edge of the trees for a moment, and she pierces him with a solemn look.

“Don’t come in till you hear me scream,” she reminds him, unnervingly calm. “And if things don’t go as planned, don’t come after me alone. Go back to Falkreath and get Rayya, at least.”

“Just be careful,” he says again, like a doting mother.

“I don’t plan on dying today,” she replies with a smirk. “Count on that.” Then, she steps onto the small road and follows it back to the top of the hill. Vilkas, hidden in the forest, keeps an eye on her as she approaches the camp. The closer she gets, the more she seems to shrink, and he can’t tell if she’s genuinely scared or putting on a show. Either way, he thinks, he’s terrified enough for the both of them.

As soon as Mayenor rounds the corner and comes into sight of the camp, the archers atop the wall snap to attention, arrows notched and ready to fly.

“Wait!” The shrill voice cuts the damp air, and Vilkas looks around for the source. By the time he realizes that anguished cry had come from Mayenor, she’s flanked by bandit guards, talking frantically. After a few moments, they grab her arms and roughly tug her toward the gate; she twists in their grasp, and he can see her eyes wide with fear. Her lips are still moving as she chatters to her captors, but her eyes are still, focused in his direction. Though he knows she can’t see him through the brush, he feels as though she’s staring into his soul, silently begging him not to leave her alone.

As Mayenor had predicted, the archers are distracted by the unexpected appearance of a strange woman in their midst. Vilkas is able to creep, however slowly, to the camp’s wall, and he presses himself against the boards, heart pounding. He’s concerned about his own safety, of course, knowing that he’s a prime target for any archer bothering to glance down; but, even more so, he’s terrified of what’s happening to Mayenor behind those walls. He hunkers down behind the spiked heads decorating the gate, trying to ignore the stench of bloated flesh as he waits for Mayenor’s signal. The minutes stretch on for what seems like hours, and he begins to panic. What if they gagged her so she couldn’t scream? What if she’d been dragged down into a cave in the mountainside and her screams were echoing unanswered against the stone walls? What if they had killed her?

She screams.


	9. A Blade in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! I absolutely canNOT apologize enough for how long it's been since my last update! My life's been more than a little hectic lately, and, on top of working retail during the holiday season (YIKES!), I moved into a new house... One without internet! Ahh! I JUST got internet installed yesterday and am back on the update train!
> 
> Anyway, fervent apologies aside, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! I'm finally beginning to delve a little into the plot I've got planned. I also want to say thank you, thank you, thank you for all of your incredibly kind comments! You guys make fighting my writer's block just a little bit easier ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> As usual, thanks for reading... And, more importantly, Happy Holidays to all of you lovelies!
> 
> ♥ topside

The sound of Mayenor's scream ringing through the trees stops Vilkas's heart.  _That didn't sound like a signal scream_ , he thinks as he draws his sword.  _That sounded like a woman afraid for her life._  Hoisting Mayenor's bag and his own onto his shoulders, he barrels into the camp, sword raised. He expects to see Mayenor thrashing against her captors or lying in a pool of her own blood; instead, she's backed up against the camp wall, fire glinting in one hand and her knife dripping red in the other. At her feet lies one of the bandits, gurgling as he tries to keep his own blood from gushing out his slit throat.

Vilkas pushes his concern for Mayenor aside for a moment, remembering the plan and scaling the steps to the wall. One by one, he dispatches of the archers, who are so focused on trying to subdue Mayenor that they never see him coming. Finally, he returns to the ground and rushes toward the group of bandits surrounding his Shield-Sister. Another bandit, this one a woman, is bleeding out on the damp grass; yet another stumbles away with his armor ablaze. As Vilkas begins the attack from behind, felling two bandits before they realize they've been set upon by a second attacker, he glimpses one of the men knocking Mayenor's dagger from her grip; before the bandit has time to act on his advantage, she pulls an arrow from her quiver and plunges it into his chest with her bare hands.

They make short work of the bandits. Only moments after he'd stormed into the camp, Vilkas stands beside his plainclothes ally, breathing heavily. A dozen bandits—men, women, Orcs, Nords—litter the ground around them.

"Are you alright?" Vilkas asks, turning on Mayenor. She, too, is panting, and her plain dress is splattered with wet, dark stains.

"Of course," she replies without looking at him. Instead, she bends to search through her victims' pockets, relieving the corpses of coin and jewelry alike. Vilkas looks away.

"What took you so long to signal?" He grunts, discarding her sword and pack.

"I wanted to make sure I had all the archers distracted before you came blundering in here like a herd of cattle," she scoffs. Once she's finished looting the bodies, she steps into Vilkas's line of sight. "Well done with the men on the walls. They were more attentive than I expected."

"You're not bad with that knife," he says, changing the subject as she kneels in the blood-stained dirt, grabbing her leather armor from her bag.

"It was the first weapon I found when I came to Skyrim," she explains, tugging her ruined dress over her head. Vilkas turns away quickly, reminding himself that he has to keep his mind on the mission. "I learned how to use it pretty quickly. Didn't have much of a choice."

"When you came to Skyrim?" He repeats, frowning. "Weren't you born here?"

"Do you really think this is the best time for a personal chat?" She deflects the question, catching his eye with a quirked eyebrow as she slings her bow, sword, quiver, and pack onto her back. "There's a few tents 'round the main campsite," she says, jerking her chin toward the other side of the camp, "but they're all empty now. It looks like there's the entrance to a mine behind those boulders over there. My guess is the rest of the pack is holed up down there with the leader."

"Any idea how many are down there?" Vilkas allows her change of subject, filing the comment away with the rest of what little he knows of her past.

"The caves in these mountains are rarely very large, luckily. The worst I've ever found is a small giant camp farther north. Based on how widespread the raids have been, though, I'd guess this is a pretty big group. Maybe twenty more in the caves?" Vilkas grimaces.

"And Aela said this would be an easy job…"

"Chin up, Vilkas," Mayenor chirps, feigning cheerfulness. "After this, you'll have a grand story to coax women into bed with."

Vilkas eyes her then, lips pursed. He wants to tell her that killing men is hardly something to brag about, and that he doesn't need  _grand stories_ to woo women into his bed, besides. But then she gives him a cheeky wink, and it's all he can do to keep from telling her that she's the only woman he wants to tangle into his sheets.

"Let's go. I want to get these caves cleared before nightfall so we don't have to sleep in the rain." Her practical words shake him from his thoughts, as usual, and he nods before following her over to the pile of boulders she had indicated earlier. Behind it, a wooden door hangs crooked on its hinges; Mayenor shoves it aside, and they step into the stale air of the mine shaft.

"The tunnel is narrow," Vilkas murmurs. "It's probably a small mine, then." Mayenor nods in silent agreement, and together, they creep forward, swords ready.

They meet a few pockets of resistance as they make their way through the mine, but never more than two or three bandits at a time. The air grows colder and more stale the deeper they go, and, though the tunnel is longer than either of them had expected, it never widens even enough for the Companions to walk side by side.

"This isn't a mine," Mayenor whispers after a while, a frown creasing her forehead.

"What do you mean?"

"Look how narrow this passage is. It's not even wide enough to get a cart full of ore through. No one would build a mine like this."

"If it's not a mine," Vilkas argues, voice hushed. "What else could it be?"

"A hideout. Think about it: with a bandit troop out front and only one point of entry, it would be impossible to sneak up on anyone down here." Her words send a chill down Vilkas's spine.

"A hideout for  _what?_ " He hisses, and she shrugs.

"Who knows. Necromancers? Vampires? Cultists? Could be anything. In any case, we'd better be careful."

The longer the tunnel continues, the more Vilkas feels a sense of foreboding creep into his chest. Rarely were the Companions contacted to deal with necromancers or miscreant wizards; more often than not, the mage faction from which the rogues had broken hired mercenaries to deal with their fallen brethren. As such, Vilkas wonders how to go about defending oneself from the undead. Could they be killed—or rather,  _re_ -killed—by conventional means? He finds himself cursing his unfamiliarity with all things magical. He could ask Mayenor, of course: as a trained mage, she was sure to know more about necromancy than he, at the very least; but Vilkas is loath to give her any reason to think of him as ignorant.

She stops abruptly, putting up a hand to signal that he should follow suit. He does, and instinct places him close by her side lest she need protection.

"What is it?" He breathes, straining to see something in the stretch of tunnel before them.

"We're getting close." Her words are barely more than a murmur.

"How can you tell?"

"The air's charged with Magicka. There's a mage down here—maybe more than one." She turns so they're facing one another, and his breath catches at her closeness.

"How much do you know about magic?"

"Not much," he admits, forcing himself to take a step back. Now is hardly the time for clouded thoughts.

"I thought so." Her tone is not, as Vilkas had feared, condescending. "Don't stand still. If he has to concentrate on hitting a moving target, his spells will be a little weaker. If you can, find something to hide behind when he releases a spell. Eventually, he'll run out of Magicka; when he does, get as close as you can and rely on melee attacks. Most mages are so dependent on their magic that they don't bother to learn traditional combat." She pauses, and purses her lips. "Then again, most mages who are doing experiments outside the College are powerful enough to kill their enemies before they can get close."

"I'm not so easily killed," he grunts, though there's a sickening twist in his gut. Even Mayenor's magic unnerves him; the thought of a stranger's magic being turned against him is enough to make his blood run cold.

"No," she agrees, and the shadow of a smile flickers across her mouth. "Let's go."

As they set off again, Vilkas begins to feel what he assumes is the Magicka in the air, an odd vibration that he can feel but somehow can't and that sends an ache through his bones. The feeling increases with every step they take, and finally, they hear the murmur of conversation ahead. Instinctively, they both crouch low, moving slowly with their bodies pressed against the rocky wall. Mayenor goes first, and Vilkas follows behind, trying to determine how many people wait beyond the doorway. She motions for him to wait, then crawls forward, stretching out her neck to peer out. Then, she withdraws into the shadows and holds up her fingers—seven. He nods, then draws his sword while she does the same; on the count of three, they burst into the room.

It's a medium-sized chamber hewn from the rough stone of the mountainside, lit by braziers placed around the walls. Vilkas quickly realizes that there's nowhere to hide in here: he and Mayenor are in full view from the moment they step into the flickering firelight. There are men on either side of the entrance to the room, and Mayenor spins to the right while Vilkas slashes down the bandit on the left.

Five more.

Vilkas loses track of Mayenor as he lunges forward to attack another bandit; from one corner of the room, he hears a rough shout, but he ignores it, focused on his prey. It isn't until he hears Mayenor's cry of ' _Behind!_ ' that he realizes another soldier snuck up on him; he launches a kick at his first victim and thrusts his greatsword into the belly of the man who had approached him from behind. To his surprise, the latter falls into a pile of glowing dust. _Necromancy_ , a voice in his mind whispers, and he feels his heart falter.

He gives up counting how many men are left to fight; every time one falls, another corpse rises up to take his place. A quick glance shows that Mayenor is hardly faring any better; then, suddenly, three of the bandits around him turn to glowing dust, leaving him only two enemies to take care of. Once they're dealt with, he looks around to see Mayenor standing across the room, glowing dust piles and solid corpses scattered at her feet.

"Why did they all disappear?" He asks, slightly breathless, crossing to join her.

"I killed the necromancer keeping them alive," she replies distractedly; she's searching through the dead wizard's robes. "Is that all of them?"

"I'll check," he offers, eager to walk away from her desecration. Though he knows, logically, that dead men don't need coins, something about ravaging corpses strikes him wrong. Still, he puts her out of his mind and prowls around the room, ensuring there are no reinforcements hidden in unseen crevices. "All clear," he calls, turning his attention to the long table set against one wall. It's laden with bottles of mead and half-eaten food; beside it, he combs through a chest that holds raw meat and cooking spices. "Looks like they planned to be here a while. Wonder what they were doing?"

"Trying new necromancy spells." He'd mostly been talking to himself, but Mayenor answers nonetheless. "It looks like he was trying to figure out how to bring someone back to life permanently, and with their own will…"

"I don't get it." He falls into a chair and pours himself some mead.

"When a necromancer revives a corpse, they don't give the person their life back. They imbue the body with magical energy for a limited amount of time, and the zombie only follows its animator's orders. It can't think for itself. He was researching a permanent reanimation. He proposes taking life from one person and transferring the life force to the deceased… But that requires knowledge of what makes up the life force and how to command it…" She continues mumbling to herself, poring over hand-written journals as he buries himself in his mead, allowing his battle-tensed muscles to relax.

Neither of them hears the approaching footfalls, too absorbed in their own thoughts; Vilkas doesn't even look up until he hears a rock scatter across the uneven ground, and he glances over at Mayenor to make sure she's not about to try one of the dead necromancer's theoretical spells.

" _Mayenor!_ " Her name comes out as a roar, and the goblet from which he'd been drinking clatters to the ground. He launches from his seat, drawing his sword as he barrels toward the woman that had managed to sneak up on them. She darts forward at the same time Mayenor turns to see what the ruckus is about, and the attacker's slashing blade catches Mayenor across the chest. Vilkas tries to block out the sound of her scream, so different than the one that had served as his signal. This scream is more of a yell, an expulsion of pain and something else—he fervently hopes it's not whatever makes up her hypothetical life force.

The attacker doesn't even have time to turn before Vilkas has separated her head from her neck; he kneels beside Mayenor even as the other woman's head rolls into a corner.

"Can you hear me?" He breathes, simultaneously wanting to hold her close and terrified to touch her. She nods, face a mask of agony. He does his best to ignore the panic welling in his chest, instead remembering his scant training in field medicine. Blood is bubbling up through a gash in her leather armor, and he pulls the material aside with trembling hands. The wound is relatively deep, but nothing important seems to have been severed: had they been close to Whiterun, a short stumble from the Temple of Kynareth, he'd hoist her over his shoulder and carry her to help.

But they're at least a day's ride from Whiterun and several hours from Rorikstead and Falkreath: her only hope rests with Vilkas, and he has little medical knowledge under normal circumstances, much less in an unsterile cave buried beneath a mountain. What's more, the blood within her wound is beginning to bubble, much like a pot of water over a hot fire.

"Poison," she gasps as though she's read his mind. Her voice is raspy and tight; a glance at her face shows him that her jaw is clenched against the pain. "Bag—potion-" she cuts off with a sharp hiss, and her arm starts to spasm. Without hesitation, he scrambles for the bag she'd set down while studying the necromancers' notes and upends it: countless bottles, plants, weapons, foodstuffs, books, and scrolls fall out. He'll wonder later how she manages to carry so much, but for now, he searches through the bottles until he finds one labeled "cure poison." By the time he gets back over to Mayenor, her breathing is shallow, but an odd light flickers around her fingers. It takes him a moment to realize that she's trying to heal herself even as her arm—he registers somewhere in the back of his mind that it's her left arm, her sword arm—jerks back and forth across the rocky ground of the cave.

His hands are shaking as he supports her head and tilts the small bottle to her lips; she swallows convulsively, and some of the potion within dribbles down her chin. He tells himself that she managed to swallow enough of the dark liquid, that she'll be fine—surely three drops aren't the difference between life and death.

Watching her spasms still to a slight but constant quiver, he loses track of time. Her head rests in his lap; her golden hair is matted crimson with drying blood, and he tries to comb through the tangles with shaking fingers. The sight of her blood on his hands makes his stomach roll, and it hits him, suddenly, that this is his fault. He should have been paying better attention to their surroundings, not drowning his senses in stale mead; he knows and has always known that she loves to lose herself in academia. And now, because he'd been a fool, she lies bleeding in his lap.

As she continues to shudder in his arms, he begins to pray.


	10. In My Time of Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't going to write any notes on this one because it kinda speaks for itself, but I actually can't stop fangirling over the end of this stupid chapter. May and Vilkas are literally perfect, I cannot, goodbye. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you adore these two as much as I do because the next chapter, at the very least, is all them :]
> 
> ♥ topside

Her abrupt return to consciousness is accompanied by an overwhelming ache. Her spine feels tied in tidy knots; her muscles jump and crawl without her consent. She feels as though she’s spent the last fortnight sleeping on a pile of rocks, and her desire to sit up is quickly quelled by a sharp stab of pain from her left shoulder. She opens her eyes and, carefully, turns her head: it, at least, doesn’t throb, as she seems to have a pillow of sorts. A few feet to her right is a dusty rock wall—suddenly, she remembers where she is and why she hurts. She remembers finding the necromancer’s journals, then Vilkas screaming her name, then a burst of agony and a feeling of utter helplessness. She had tried to heal herself: even as poison coursed through her veins, she had called on every vestige of strength to muster up a weak healing spell, but the poison burning through her body had been too much for her feeble magic. She remembers slipping into black unconsciousness with fear clawing at her heart even as Vilkas held her in his strong hands.

She looks to the left then, wondering where Vilkas is, and tries to ignore a terror rising in her chest: what if he had left her there, alone in that dank cave, to die? The answer becomes apparent immediately: a small but merry fire crackles a safe distance away. She watches the copper flames dance and spark for a few moments before noticing a dark figure beyond the fire. She can make out the silhouette of Vilkas’s broad shoulders, and their rhythmic rise and fall tells her that he’s asleep. She tries again to sit up, feeling the pinch of hunger in her gut; though she braces herself for the inevitable pain from her filleted shoulder, she can’t hold back a gasp of surprise as her body protests her movement. Almost before the noise has escaped her mouth, she hears a rustle across the fire, and Vilkas scrambles into the flickering firelight.

“You’re awake,” he rasps, and she notes that, even though he’d just been asleep, dark bags hang from his lower lashes.

“No, I’m sleep walking,” she retorts through gritted teeth, trying to get a good view of her injured shoulder. It’s just then that she realizes she’s been stripped of her cuirass: naught but her breastband covers her torso.

“I had to get to the cut,” Vilkas grunts by way of explanation, though she hadn’t questioned his motives. “I’m no healer, but I did what I could.”

She scrutinizes the bandage he’d affixed to her arm: to call it rudimentary would be an unkind exaggeration, but it seems to have done its job: excepting a few rusty red patches, the fabric is still the dusty blue of the dress he’d ripped it from. While she examines his handiwork, he moves away from her, out of the ring of firelight, and she looks up and strains to follow his movement. He returns quickly, his arms laden with bottles, plants, and a fresh swathe of fabric.

“What are you doing?” She asks, understandably suspicious as he eyes various ingredients and tosses them into an awaiting mortar.

“Making another potion,” he responds, tone distracted. He pauses then, and his dark eyes flick up to meet hers. “Am I doing it wrong?” She leans forward slightly and peers into the mortar: wheat, a rock warbler egg, and a butterfly wing wait to be mixed into a paste.

“No,” she replies, surprise evident in her voice. Nodding, he snatches up the pestle and begins working the ingredients together. His movements are choppy and unfamiliar, and she watches, brows knit together in confusion. “I didn’t realize you knew alchemy,” she says after a moment.

“I don’t.” His answer is blunt, and his lips twitch into a lopsided smirk. “I found your recipes in one of your journals when I was looking through your potions. Even a simple Nord like me can mix a few things together.” He finishes his work with a few more rough, strong strokes of the pestle, then carefully sets it aside and meets her eyes.

“Lie down.” She wants to argue, to snap at him for daring to give her orders, but his words are so strong and his voice so sure, she finds herself obeying without question. He shifts to his knees at her side and leans over her, big hands gentle as he tugs at the edges of her bandage. She sucks in a breath as the dried blood pulls at her wound, and his lips set in a thin, worried line, but he continues his work. She crooks her neck in an attempt to see the gash in her shoulder, and what she sees surprises her. The cut itself is not particularly deep, but it’s coated with dried blood, and the exposed muscle beneath is an unhealthy gray color.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that,” Vilkas mutters as he scoops some of the paste onto the tips of his thick fingers.

“It’s not,” she agrees, leaning up in an effort to get a better view. Almost immediately, his free hand is on her good shoulder, firmly pushing her back onto the ground. She flicks her gaze to his face, then, and watches his brow furrow in concentration as he applies the paste to her wound. She hisses with pain, and his jaw clenches.

“Did I mix it wrong?” He asks, voice tight, and she shakes her head quickly.

“No, it’s right. It just hurts like a bitch. Keep going.” She tries to keep her voice steady and looks away this time as he bends back to his work.

Grudgingly, she has to admit that he’s astonishingly gentle. His hands are most inelegant, with thick, stubby fingers and rough palms as big as her face—perfect for gripping the hilt of a sword, but hardly suited to precision work; nonetheless, she barely feels his fingers through the burn of the healing salve. She takes advantage of his concentration to really look at him: his eyes are heavy and bloodshot from lack of sleep, and the prickling of facial hair he usually sports has grown into a dark scruff. She furrows her brow.

“How long was I out?” She asks. He’s finished applying the salve and has moved on to re-bandaging the cut.

“A little over a week,” he replies distractedly, carefully winding the fabric around her shoulder.

“A _week_?” She repeats, eyes widening. She realizes, all at once, that he’s been looking after her all that time, and she feels her pulse quicken. Before setting out on this job, she would have sworn that Vilkas would be happy to let her rot in a cave; now, though, she’s completely at his mercy. “I’m surprised you have any ingredients left,” she manages after a moment.

“I used up what was in your bag pretty quickly,” he admits. “When I went to get the horses, though, I found some more in your saddlebags.” As he speaks, he gestures vaguely to his left, and she sees now that their saddlebags are piled in a corner.

“You really need to eat now that you’re awake,” he says, standing abruptly and wiping his hands on his trousers. “It was all I could do to get you to drink occasionally while you were unconscious.” As she eases herself into a sitting position, he crosses to fire and positions a cooking pot over the flames. She watches him busy himself with preparing their meal.

“Thank you,” she says after a moment, and he looks up at her sharply, expression surprised. “I don’t think I would’ve survived this without your help.”

“Mmm,” he grunts, returning his attention to the food. “I would’ve been useless without all your recipes.”

“Lucky I took Ma’s cookbook before I left Cyrodiil, I guess,” she replies wryly, and he glances at her once more, this time calculating.

“Ralof mentioned the Imperials picked you up crossing the border. What were you doing in Cyrodiil?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, toying with the mortar and pestle he’d left by her side, and he goes back to cooking, clearly expecting her to dodge his question, as she usually does whenever she feels he’s getting too personal. Instead, she sighs and looks up at him.

“I grew up in Cyrodiil,” she finally says, and he arches his brows in surprise.

“But… You’re a Nord, not an Imperial.”

“My mother’s family was all from Skyrim. My aunt married an Imperial and moved to Cyrodiil, so when Ma found out she was pregnant with me, she went to live with them.”

“And your father? Was he a Nord?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet, and he pauses in his work to look at her. “I never met him, but I don’t think he was Nordic. All Ma would ever tell me was that he was an instructor at the College of Winterhold, and there are very few Nords there.”

“Your father was a mage?” Vilkas’s words carry a surprised tone, though, given her aptitude for magic, it would make sense for mages to be in her lineage. “And your mother, too? That’s why she knew so much about alchemy?” Mayenor shakes her head.

“Ma was an alchemist. She couldn’t cast a spell to save her life, but she had an alchemy shop in Winterhold before the Great Collapse. She stuck around afterward, to cater to the College, and that’s how she met my father. She knew she couldn’t afford to raise me on her own, though, so she closed the shop and moved to Cyrodiil with her sister.”

“So what brought you to Skyrim, then?” He gets the food to cooking, then settles down a few feet to her right, eyeing her curiously.

“I always felt something pulling me back to Skyrim. Call it heritage or whatever you want, Cyrodiil never really felt like home to me. Once Ma died, I had no reason to stay anymore. I took my uncle’s hunting bow and all the gold I’d saved up from working on the farms and hopped on the first carriage headed this way.”

“I don’t understand how you got caught up in the Stormcloak raid.” Mayenor’s lips twist into a smirk.

“I was impatient,” she admits. “I’d waited by whole life to come to Skyrim, but somehow I’d failed to realize I’d need papers to cross the border. It would’ve put me behind a whole year to wait for the proper documents, so I travelled through the woods along the border a ways and tried to cross on my own. Somehow I managed to choose the exact spot that Ulfric and his men were gathering. General Tullius rounded me up with the rest of them and nothing I said could change their minds.” She gives a short laugh. “Have you ever _seen_ the Stormcloaks? They hardly let women fight for them. Especially not teenaged farmhands from the Imperial capitol.”

“So you worked on a farm in Cyrodiil?”

“Several. Picking crops, planting seeds… Whatever they needed.”

“Then… Who taught you to fight?” She looks up at him sharply, and the fierceness that had faded from her eyes springs back to life. He’s beginning to recognize the glimmer as the fiery pride that keeps her going.

“I taught myself. And I’m damn good, no matter what you say. I fought my way out of Helgen, then from Rorikstead to Winterhold. I spent a year at the College learning magic and teaching myself to survive alone in Skyrim, then went back to Rorikstead looking for work.”

He nods his head slowly, registering her words. He finds it almost impossible to believe that she wasn’t born with a sword in her hands—her brute strength is enough to impress even the most seasoned warriors, despite his never ending protesting to the contrary—but it does explain a lot about her technique – or lack thereof. He doesn’t ask her anymore about her past, still barely believing he’d been lucky to get even this much out of her; instead, he leans up to tend to the stew bubbling in the cooking pot.

“So what’s your story?” Her voice is soft, and when he glances over his shoulder at her, she’s peering up at him with those wide, green eyes. He doesn’t answer for a long moment, instead taking an opportunity to just stare at her. Her hair is dirty and matted where it’s come undone from its bun; her skin is ashen with blood loss; her cheeks and arms are streaked with dirt and dust. And yet somehow, in this most vulnerable situation, she looks older than he’s ever seen.

“Da was a Companion,” Vilkas mutters after a long while. “Don’t know who our Ma was. Tilma said she heard crying at the main doors of Jorrvaskr one night, and when she went to look, me ‘n Farkas were in a basket on the top step with a note. We were raised as Companions from the time we could walk. I’ve never known another life.”

“You mean you’ve been in Whiterun your whole life?”

“Yeah. Except for doing jobs, I’ve never left the city.” She stares at him, looking, for the first time, like she’s speechless.

“You… You’ve never explored Skyrim? Or any of Tamriel? By the eight, Vilkas, you’ve even got a built-in follower in Farkas, and the two of you _never_ just got on a horse and rode until you saw something that made you want to stop? You’ve never gone skulking through the woods, hoping you don’t end up some werewolf’s midnight snack, or climbed the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar, or seen how the people of Markarth managed to turn a bunch of crumbling ruins into a beautiful and thriving city?”

“Well… No.”

“But _why_?”

It’s his turn to be speechless then. He’s never really considered the fact that there’s a world to see outside Whiterun; the idea that he and Farkas could go off on their own and do whatever their heart desired had never even occurred to him. And yet, hearing her list with such disbelief all the things he’s never seen in his own homeland, he finds himself asking the same question. Why _hadn’t_ he ever gone off on his own adventures? Almost thirty years of taking orders from Skjor, Aela, and Kodlak, and he’d never done a thing of his own volition.

“I’m a Companion,” he finally replies, gruffly. “My place is in Jorrvaskr.” He doesn’t mention the newfound wanderlust that’s blossoming in his chest, or that he longs to sat that lust with her.

“But—Skyrim is such an incredible place—” He cuts her off by thrusting a bowl of crude stew in her direction.

“Eat. You need your strength.” She hesitates for a moment before dumbly accepting the food, but he can tell by the set of her jaw that’s she’s not done arguing.

They eat in a silence more comfortable than any they’ve shared before, and Vilkas allows his mind to wander for a while. Ever since she regained consciousness, Mayenor has been far more talkative than he’d ever dreamed she’d be with him, and he can’t quite quell the excitement making his heart race. The thought that she might— _finally_ —begin to think of him with the slightest bit of fondness fills his heart with naïve hope. Though he’ll go to the grave swearing to the contrary, he had been plagued with thoughts of a life without her throughout her sickness, and he had decided, in a surprise even to himself, that he wasn’t sure a life without her fiery presence was worth living.

While Vilkas is distracted, Mayenor tries to stand, wincing with pain as her sore muscles protest the now-unfamiliar movements. By the time she’s off her knees, Vilkas is by her side, hovering. She notes with grim satisfaction that nursing her for so long hasn’t given him the incorrect idea that she needs his help, but, even as she thinks this, she feels her knees buckling. He catches her deftly and gently lowers her back down to the ground, face a mask of concern. She scowls and does her best to shrug him off, but he stubbornly hold her down until she stops struggling.

“One bowl of stew doesn’t make you well enough to move around on your own,” he chides, sending her scowl deeper.

“Then tie me on my horse so we can get out of this stinking cave,” she snaps in reply, and he shakes his head.

“You’re still too ill to travel. We wouldn’t even make it back to Falkreath with you in this state, and you know it.” A grunt is her only reply, but she knows he’s right. Even the small amount of activity she’s done since awakening has left her feeling like she’s fought an entire army on her own, but she certainly isn’t going to let him know that.

“They’ll be wondering about us back in Whiterun,” she grumbles.

“You know they don’t start worrying until half a fortnight has passed. We’ve got a few more days before they even think about us.” She sighs, frustrated with both his persistent logic and her lack of strength. She feels one of his big hands around her elbow and looks up, surprised, to see him smiling.

“Be patient, whelp, and just enjoy the fact that you’re alive. All of your adventures will still be waiting for you in a few days’ time.” His voice, though still rough and gravelly, is a soft murmur, and she feels herself relaxing partially from the surprise of hearing him sound so… _nurturing_. She’s seen him be friendly with some of the other companions—namely Kodlak and Farkas—but she’s never heard him so calm or even imagined it was possible. Under his supervision, she carefully raises herself into a sitting position, eyeing him suspiciously the whole time. He chuckles. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, leaning back on his haunches so he’s not in her personal space. “I can put my need to show you up aside for a little while in the name of saving your life.” His eyes sparkle, and for once it’s not with malice.

“You mean you don’t want to be put in your place by a cripple,” she retorts, feeling an actual smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I guess I’ll spare you the humiliation just this once. Seeing as you didn’t let me rot down here.” His chuckling continues, then turns into a single, genuine bark of laughter as he moves from his knees a sitting position beside her and turns his attention to the fire.

“You may be a whelp, but you’re still my Shield-Sister,” he informs her, turning his head to give her a solemn look. “I’ve got your back, just as you’ve got mine.” She stares at him, a funny look in her eyes, even after he’s looked away. He’s trying to puzzle out the meaning of her expression when he feels something soft press against his cheek.

His head whips around to face her so quickly he’s surprised it doesn’t turn all the way back around; she arches an eyebrow at him, trying to look nonchalant, but that strange look still shines in her eyes.

“Did—Did you just kiss me?” He stammers, a calloused hand lifting to touch his cheek where her lips had just been.

“If you even want to call that a kiss,” she scoffs in reply. “It was just to thank you for taking care of me, though I’d say you owed it to me after breaking my—Oh!”

Vilkas rarely finds himself at a loss for words. He rarely has an issue with not knowing how to handle a situation—that’s Farkas’ problem. _He_ , on the other hand,is the suave one. So when Mayenor’s kiss leaves him not only speechless but completely stunned, his mind races to decide on a course of action. In every other encounter the pair has ever shared, he’s managed to keep a tight hold on his rampaging affections; this time, though, as she struggles to make a weak joke about his duties to her, all he can see is her full lips, cracked from dehydration, pushing and pulling to form words he couldn’t care less about. Finally, it’s too much; he rocks forward on his knees, cups her face in both his hands, and kisses her.

At first she’s too surprised to respond, but he persists, the overwhelming bliss of a fantasy come to life clouding his thoughts. A few flurried heartbeats pass before she hesitantly returns his kiss, and the thought occurs to him, briefly, that she’s only humoring him out of gratitude. But, as her fingers knot into his hair and her tongue skips across his bottom lip, he finds that he doesn’t care. Their kisses grow from tentative to passionate, almost desperate, as the tension that’s been building between them since the moment they met finally finds a release, and as Mayenor moves into his lap, Vilkas realizes he’ll have to be the one to say no.

He separates her from him with a gentle hand on her good shoulder, and the look in her eyes—a scorching desire that’s replaced whatever hesitations plagued her only moments before—nearly makes him lose control all over again.

“What is it?” She asks, breathless, as one hand rubs its way up his thigh. He swallows hard.

“Stop—we can’t—” Her fingers walk from his leg to the bulge in his pants, and he quickly grabs her hand with his own. “You need to stop that,” he finally manages, throat tight.

“ _You_ started this,” she huffs, jerking her hand from his and beginning to move away. “I’m not one of those girls at the inn you can play your games with. You forget, _I_ can and will kick your ass.” As she gets to her knees and moves to stand, he grabs her arm and pulls her back to his lap, pressing a rough kiss to her jaw.

“I’m not playing games with you,” he explains, resisting the urge to hold her close to his chest. “I’m trying to avoid regrets.” She scowls at him.

“No, you’re right, fucking a whelp would really damage your reputation, wouldn’t it?” She spits out the words, and he feels indignation rise to replace the lust clouding his mind. He struggles not to make a retort that would ruin what little progress they’ve made.

“This isn’t how I wanted this to happen,” he explains through gritted teeth. “In some dirty cave buried under a mountain.” Her scowl drops, then, and she gives him a curious look.

“How you wanted this to happen?” She repeats. “You… You _wanted_ this? It’s not just a life-or-death adrenaline rush?” She seems genuinely surprised, and he fidgets under her stare.

“I’ve always… admired you,” he grunts, glaring at the ground. “You’re… a good fighter.” His glare rises to her face as he hears her laugh. 

“A good fighter, huh?” She grins and leans forward to ghost a kiss across his lips. “I’ve heard much worse reasons to care about someone, I guess. Fine, have it your way. When we get back to Jorrvaskr, we can enjoy the fact that we’re alive together.” She slides off his lap with a lingering impish grin, and he feels his pulse quicken at the thought of what she has in store for him. He pushes aside his eager thoughts, though, when he sees her yawn.

“For now, though, let’s focus on sleep,” he tells her, voice stern. She rolls her eyes but obediently fluffs the pile of fabric she’s been using for a pillow and lays down. Within minutes, she’s fast asleep. 

He gets up and finds more wood to add to the fire, then settles down to get some rest himself now that he’s fairly sure she won’t die in the night. Habitually, he lays between Mayenor and the cave’s entrance, his sword tucked against him for easy access lest someone try to attack while they slept. As the exhaustion of the past week overwhelms him and he slips into his dreams, he feels Mayenor’s fingers twine with his, and he smiles. 


	11. Return to Your Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have anything interesting to say on this one, except that it's getting stupidly difficult to find Skyrim quests with names that somewhat match up to my chapters... 
> 
> Anyway, my grumbling aside, hope you all enjoy!
> 
> ♥ topside

It takes three days of Mayenor mixing her own, admittedly stronger, healing potions before Vilkas agrees that she’s strong enough to travel. They leave the cave at dawn, both eager to escape the dank darkness of the underground. As they pass through the bandit camp on the horses Vilkas had retrieved shortly after Mayenor’s injury, they can see the toll of the past week: the corpses scattered across the ground are bloated, and many show signs of wild animals snacking on them. The pair hardly pays them any attention as they steer their mounts toward Falkreath.

“How are you feeling?” Vilkas asks for the umpteenth time as the sun rises higher in the sky. She’s traded her ruined cuirass for a bulky studded one she’d taken off one of the corpses. It’s too big for her tiny frame and shifts uncomfortably with her every move, but she’d insisted she wear it.

“I’m  _fine_ ,” comes her irritated reply, just like every other time he’d asked. He doesn’t say anything else, then, sinking into his own thoughts. After their encounter three nights ago, things had more or less gone back to the way they’d been before, if a little less unpleasant, and he’s been trying to figure out her intentions ever since. For his own sanity, he’s decided to put it down to a type of damsel-in-distress reaction: she’d been grateful to him for saving her life, and she’d tried to repay him the best way she knew possible. He’s looking forward now to getting back to Jorrvaskr and putting the whole ordeal behind them. She’ll stick around just long enough to get her portion of the bounty, then disappear for who knows how long, and he’ll be left to savor the memory of her lips.

The majority of their journey is undergone in silence. Even when they stop to rest at Lakeview Manor, they eat without a word to one another. Instead, Mayenor disappears into another room with Rayya, leaving Vilkas alone with his thoughts until she returns and grunts that it’s time to head out. They get back on their horses and don’t stop until the silhouette of Dragonsreach looms on the horizon.

After leaving their steeds with the stablehands, they begin the trek up the hill to the city gates. He watches her in the sinking daylight: though they hadn’t let up their pace since dawn, she looks remarkably healthy and only a little travel-weary. As they pass through the marketplace and climb the steps to Jorrvaskr, the afternoon sun catches on the gold of her dirty, blood-splattered hair, and he quickly looks away from her, scowling.

How close he had been to making that Angel of War his lover.

The familiar creak of the heavy mead hall doors sends a wave of relaxation across his tight shoulders: after a week of confusion and terror and just a little bit of bliss, he’s finally  _home_.

“Well, well. Looks like I owe you a drink, Athis.” Their entrance is met with Torvar’s drawling voice and Athis’ look of amused surprise.

“You’re both alive?” He asks lightly, standing from the long table to circle the pair. “All limbs and fingers accounted for, too.” He tsks and grins at Mayenor. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought for sure you’d leave him for bandit bait.” He tosses Vilkas a teasing smile, then moves to clap Mayenor on the shoulder. Before his hand can make contact, Vilkas catches his wrist, and Mayenor twists away from him, cradling her injured arm warily. Athis’ red eyes widen with surprise.

“She’s injured,” Vilkas grunts, releasing his Shield-Brother and pushing past him to take up his usual seat at the table. A glance back results in him catching Mayenor’s gaze, and she nods almost imperceptibly in thanks. He ignores her, and in an instant, Ria takes the spotlight.

“You’re  _hurt_?” The girl coos, brows furrowed in worry. Mayenor’s jaw tightens in instant annoyance.

“Hardly, Ria. It’s nearly healed already. Just a scratch, anyway. Now, do you know where Aela is?” Mayenor’s voice carries the overly-patient tone that frequents her conversations with Ria.

“Right here.” Mayenor and Vilkas both turn to see Aela emerging from Skjor’s bedroom; she nods at them both. “Let’s get you two debriefed and paid. This job’s already dragged on longer than I anticipated.”

Even Ria doesn’t argue as Mayenor moves away from her to follow Aela toward the stairs; after pouring himself a tankard of mead and giving his brother a friendly clap on the back, Vilkas follows suit. They gather in Aela’s study, shutting the door behind them, and Vilkas settles against the wall to allow the women to take the room’s two chairs.

“Well?” Aela prompts, looking between the pair. “You’re alive, so I assume the bandits are dead?”

“Quite,” Mayenor replies, a familiarly savage glint in her eyes.

“Good. Any particular reason a three-day job lasted almost two weeks?” She narrows her eyes at the pair knowingly. “Could you not even cooperate long enough to finish the job?”

“There were complications,” Vilkas retorts, nursing his tankard.

“They weren’t just bandits,” Mayenor adds, quickly seeing that he’s not in a talkative mood. “The bandit camp was just protection for a necromancer, probably a rogue from the College. We dealt with him, but I was injured. It took a while before I was well enough to travel.” Immediately, Aela’s brows knit together in concern.

“Injured? How badly?”

“It’s nothing to be concerned with, really,” Mayenor assures her, and Vilkas snorts.

“Nearly cut her arm off,” he corrects, and Aela gives Mayenor a sharp look.

“He’s exaggerating—”

“Let me see.”

“It’s really not a big deal—”

“ _Let me see._ ”

Sighing and grumbling, Mayenor fumbles with the fastenings of her unfamiliar armor, then lifts it over her head with a wince. Aela swoops in to examine her shoulder, and even Vilkas glances at it out of habit. He watches as Aela runs her fingers along the wound and has Mayenor move her arm in all sorts of ways; when she’s done, she returns to her chair with pursed lips.

“What’s that look?” Mayenor asks distrustfully, replacing her armor.

“It’s healed up fine,” Aela assures her quickly. “It’ll leave a hell of a scar, but you’ll be fine. It’s your sword arm, right?” Mayenor nods in suspicious affirmative. “You’re going to have to re-train it a bit to get it back up to strength. The muscle was cut in an odd way, and you’ll have to teach it to stretch and support the weight of a sword again.”

“Well how long will that take?”

“A few weeks, minimum. Njada had a similar injury once; if you stick around, I’m sure she’ll be happy to help you whip it back into shape. If you decide to run off on your adventures, though… Well, just don’t go fighting any dragons with that arm any time soon.”

While Mayenor grumbles in her seat, Aela turns to the strongbox that sits atop her desk.

“Jarl Siddgeir hasn’t sent his payment yet, but it should be here shortly. Here’s your cuts.” She tosses two bags of coin into the air; Mayenor and Vilkas catch them deftly, simultaneously weighing their rewards in-hand. Mayenor grins and stands.

“Right, well. I’m off to spend this. Ta!” With a cheery wave and a flash of teeth, she’s gone. In her absence, Aela turns to Vilkas.

“Anything else to report?”

Vilkas considers for a long moment, thinking of all the things he could tell Aela: that Mayenor had risked her life with a foolhardy plan, that he had spent almost a week of sleepless nights questioning the point of a life without the hard-headed girl in it, that he had come  _so close_ to fulfilling his every fantasy but had turned her away because of some romantic notion of how their first time should be. Instead, he shakes his head.

“Alright, then. You’re dismissed. Get some rest—and for the Divines’ sakes, clean yourself up. You both look like death.” Though Aela’s voice carries a teasing tone, Vilkas scowls as he turns toward the door. Halfway out, he pauses and looks back.

“Aela?”

“Hmm?”

“If you ever put me on a job with her again,” he looks over his shoulder to stare Aela dead in the eye, “I’ll kill her myself.” With that, he slams the door shut behind him and heads for his quarters.

After he cleans up and decides against shaving—somehow the jungle of scruff across his chin feels almost like a souvenir from his night of bliss—he returns to the mead hall’s main room. As he’d expected, most everyone has disappeared to their own enjoyment by now: Torvar is, he’s sure, at the Bannered Mare pestering the local women; Ria, on the other hand, is likely in the training yard with her bow drawn in shaky hands, trying to improve her hopeless aim. And Farkas, always reliable as the cycles of the moon, is resting in a chair away from the main table and the fire.

Vilkas drops into a chair across from his brother, snatching up the tankard of ale that had been waiting for him.

“Rough mission?” Farkas asks while Vilkas takes a moment to relax. He looks around the mead hall, eyes lingering on weapons mounted on the walls, the never ending supply of food on the table, the burning chandelier of candles hanging from the ceiling, and, finally, his twin “Something like that,” he grunts in return, downing his tankard and refilling it.

“Well, you’re home now.” Farkas nudges his brother with his foot. “And she’s already gone, out of your hair.” Vilkas’s head snaps up.

“Gone?”

“Yeah. To wherever the hell she goes.” Farkas chuckles and raises his tankard in a toast. “To a few months of peace without that whelp!” Dumbly, Vilkas touches glasses and drinks.

If Mayenor was gone—if she had really left—then that was it. He had blown his only chance to feel her heartbeat race beneath his hands, and now she was on her way back to that damned redhead in Riften. Vilkas imagines her arriving in Riften under the cover of dawn and slipping into Brynjolf’s bedroom just as the sun made its appearance in the sky. He imagines the thief blinking awake as her hands trail down his chest; he can almost  _see_ that infuriating grin spreading across his lying lips.

He gulps down the rest of his mead.


	12. A Night to Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost entirely smut and I'm not the least bit ashamed.
> 
> Happy St. Patrick's Day!  
> ♥ topside

The brothers support each other down the stairs and along the hallway that holds their rooms, quietly chuckling at each other, themselves, and nothing in particular. They had stayed up talking and drinking long past sunset, and they’re both feeling the effects of their mead—though Vilkas is considerably less coherent than his brother after using the mead as a tool to forget his misguided love. When they reach their doors, Farkas allows his wobbly brother to stumble alone to his bedroom.

Vilkas shuts the door behind him and leans heavily against it, eyes closed. His mind feels muddled, but, somehow, his heartache shines through the fog. He’s reminded himself a dozen times tonight that he’s a fool for being so upset: he knows Mayenor, knows her reputation, and even if they had slept together, it wouldn’t have guaranteed a relationship. She, like anyone else, had needs and was just looking to satisfy them.

He pushes off from the door and moves farther into his room, stripping out of his shirt with his thoughts on his Shield-Sister. It’s not until he’s got one leg out of his pants that he notices something off: a light shines behind the screen that hides his bed from the door. There is usually a candle flickering in every room of Jorrvaskr, but this light is steady, unblinking. He hastens back into his trousers and grabs a knife off a nearby table.

When he rounds the screen, he stops dead, and the knife clatters from his grip. There, sitting cross-legged on his bed in one of his shirts, is Mayenor, a magical light shining brightly over her head. She’s bent over her ruined leather cuirass, carefully sewing up the cut. She looks up mid-stitch, clean hair glistening in the light and eyes dancing, and smiles at him.

“You and Farkas have a nice talk?” She asks, returning to her work. Vilkas stares at her for a long moment, speechless.  
“What are you doing here?” He finally manages, and she chuckles.  
“Did you forget our date? We’re supposed to enjoy being alive, remember?” Her words send a numbing chill up his spine. In the span of a second, he remembers the night they kissed, and suddenly the room seems to grow warmer.  
“You’re in my shirt,” he says stupidly, and she bites back a grin.  
“What, did you and Farkas have a drinking contest?” She shakes her head, smiling. “Yes, I’m wearing your shirt. That stolen armor was mighty uncomfortable, and besides. I felt like this allowed for… easier movement.” She finishes her row of stitches and shifts the armor off her lap: Vilkas notices immediately that she’s wearing only his shirt, leaving her luxuriously long legs uncovered.

“I thought you’d left,” he grunts, tearing his eyes away from her bare skin. His thoughts are racing and tumbling over one another: he can’t focus on any single thing save the glow of her skin in the unnatural light.  
“I decided to stick around and let Njada help me with my arm,” she answers, and he can see her shrugging out of the corner of his eye. There’s a rustling noise to his right, and, as he realizes she’s stood from the bed, his heart begins to pound against his ribcage. “Besides,” she continues, and the purr in her voice sends shivers rippling across his skin, “I didn’t want to miss our date.”

She steps up behind him, so close he can feel her warm breath wafting over his shoulder blades, and puts a hand on his bare hip. Her touch makes him shudder with longing; he tenses, not sure what to expect from the unpredictable girl. He hears her airy chuckle behind him.

“Just relax,” she coos, trailing her fingers up his side before resting them on his shoulders. She begins to massage his anxious muscles, and he fights to keep some semblance of coherence.  
“How long have you been here?” He asks, unconsciously bending his head forward so she can reach him better.  
“I got back a little after sundown. You and Farkas seemed preoccupied, so I just came down here to wait for you.”  
“Mmmm,” he hums in response, feeling himself relax under her strong fingers. Abruptly, she pulls away, and he turns to face her. She’s got this wicked smile on her face, and something in him stirs at the sight. Before she can make a move, he pulls her against his chest and crushes their lips together.

He can feel her grin even as they kiss; when his hands trail down her waist to the exposed skin of her thigh, she chuckles and separates their lips.  
“You’re not teasing me this time, are you?” She breathes, peering up at him through thick lashes. “No regrets?”  
“None.” He barely chokes out the reassurance, too eager to return his lips to hers. She ducks her head, eyes crinkling with a smile, and avoids his kiss.  
“You’re sure?” She presses tightly against him, hands travelling from his shoulders, over his chest, past his navel, before finally resting just above the waist of his pants. He gulps back a wave of desire, trying not to shake with repressed longing.  
“Positive.” Again, he tries to kiss her; again, she pulls away.  
“Is this more how you imagined it?” She asks, voice innocent, though the glint in her eye tells him that she knows she’s teasing him. “In your own bed, surrounded by your family? Where the slightest noise will bring everyone running…” She connects their gazes, and the hunger burning in her eyes weakens his knees. “I guess we’d best be quiet.” When he bends to kiss her this time, she meets him halfway, wetting his lips with her wandering tongue. Her fingers dance at the waist of his trousers, almost nervous in their movement, like she’s hesitant to take that next step. He forces himself away from her.

“Are you sure you want this?” He asks. There’s no question that he wants her: his fingertips dig into her hips, keeping her tight to his chest, and his pants rub uncomfortably against him. It would kill him to let her walk out his door, but he’ll let her, if that’s what she wants. To his relief, her lips twist into a feral grin. She takes his hand in hers and guides it down her stomach and to her inner thigh; leaning up to reach his ear, she whispers.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?”

It’s as though she’s flipped some switch in his mind. The words have barely left her mouth before he lifts her into his arms; instinctively, she wraps her legs around his waist, kissing him desperately even as he pushes her against the cold stone wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. He pins her to the wall with his hips, freeing one hand to dip beneath the hem of her oversize shirt; she sucks in a sharp breath as his fingers rub up her side, under her arm, between her breasts. She thrusts her hands into his waistband and struggles to push down his pants; when he moves his hips to help, she falls to her feet, smirking.

“You shouldn’t have let me go,” she hisses, putting her hands against his chest and pushing him toward the bed. “I’m in control now.”  
“Oh yeah?” He retorts, catching himself after just a few stumbling steps. He grabs her wrists and twists both arms behind her back, holding them with one hand while the other slips between her legs, teasing her. She squirms, trying to escape even as her breath stutters with pleasure. “You should know by now that I always win,” he growls into her ear, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She fights against succumbing to the ecstasy pumping through her body, focusing instead on wriggling her hands loose behind her back. He tightens his grip before she can get them free, but she manages to slide a few fingers down the front of his pants. A gasp of surprise accompanies his loosened grip; she twists away from him, and, when she faces him again, his dark eyes sparkle with longing.  
“I never did put you in your place,” she reminds him, managing to sound strong despite her quivering knees. “You’re well past-due.” His every instinct tells him to relent, to let her have her way—he can see it in his mind’s eye: her balanced over his hips, breasts bouncing as she moves up and down, that pretty face twisted in exquisite agony. But he’s played this game with her long enough to know that she doesn’t care about the destination nearly as much as the journey. So, as she slowly steps back toward him, shoulders tense as though expecting an attack, he puts his hands up in defense.  
“Do your worst,” he goads, eyebrows raised. He can see her chest rise and fall with quick breaths, and he knows she’s just as aroused as he is.  
“Kiss me,” she demands, closing the space between them and slinging her arms around his neck. Though her submission surprises him, he’s more than happy to oblige, tilting his lips to meet hers as his hands creep down the outside of her thighs, then cup under her butt. 

As her tongue darts across his lips, over the tops of his teeth, flirtatiously dancing with his own, he feels the restraint that has long kept his affection at bay slipping away. He feels himself falling from admiration perilously close to _love_ even as it happens—and, with her hands maneuvering his pants to the floor and her lips following them down, he decides that maybe, just once, it’s ok for him to let go.


	13. Out of Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think "here's the fucking cheese and toes" may be the best line I've ever written. Just saying.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!  
> ♥ topside

Vilkas shoulders his way into the main room of Jorrvaskr, Farkas grumbling along behind him. They’ve got sore backs from lugging bags of mammoth cheese and giant’s toes back from the edge of Whiterun Hold, not to mention the brilliant shiner blossoming around Farkas’s right eye. Aela and Skjor are bent in conversation at one of the small side tables away from the main fire, but the brothers ignore the obvious intimacy of their discussion and drop their sacks at the Council members’ feet. Skjor looks up at them, scowling.

“There’s the fucking cheese and toes,” Vilkas grunts, foul mood apparently worsening despite being home. “Divines, what the fuck are we doing, Skjor? Since when are the Companions errand boys for the Jarl? There wasn’t even a bounty on that giant camp! What was the  _point_?”

“You know the townsfolk have been complaining about the  _dogs howling_ ,” Skjor replies, words slow and purposeful. “They insist we let them hunt too close to the Hold walls.” Here he pins Farkas with a pointed look, and the man fidgets guiltily. The last full moon, he had decided to stray from their usual hunting grounds and had ended up blooding a sabre cat just outside the city walls. “Doing favors for the Jarl keeps him from asking too many questions. Now, you two are dismissed.”

Vilkas considers pressing the point, but the look in Skjor’s eye warns him to drop it. While Farkas wanders over to the table to partake in the apple pie that caught his eye the moment they walked in, Vilkas finds himself absently scanning the faces of his fellow Companions, searching for Mayenor among the crowd. He’s gotten used to hearing her smart comments as he walks by and even more used to muffling her moans in the middle of the night, and it’s gotten to the point that he’s afraid he’s becoming dependent on her. He’s developed a habit of knowing where she is at all times, and that’s a habit he knows he’ll eventually have to overcome—her injured arm is nearly back to full strength already: it’s only a matter of time before she disappears to continue her never-ending adventures.

Upon realizing that Mayenor is nowhere to be found in the Main Hall, Vilkas checks the training yard and then the whelps’ bedroom. Finally, he admits defeat and circles back to find Ria sitting on her bed repairing a fishing net.

“Where’s Mayenor?” Vilkas asks gruffly, startling the girl.

“Why do you want to know?” She asks, eyes narrowing. He quirks an eyebrow, and she quickly recants. “She’s down by the river gathering alchemy supplies. Apparently she’s completely wiped out Belethor and Arcadia’s stocks.” Vilkas has to remind himself not to grin at this news: ever since he’d decimated her alchemical ingredients when she’d been injured, she spends countless hours trying to regain what she’s lost. He doesn’t even thank Ria as he turns his back on her, and he doesn’t say a word to Farkas as he slams out the doors of Jorrvaskr, apparently headed to the training yard. Once outside, though, he circles back around the building and descends the steps into the market.

Though people try to stop him for a chat as he walks toward the city gate, Vilkas snubs them all, eager to see his beloved after a grueling assignment. Normally giants were no trouble for the brothers, but this particular camp had an oddly intelligent leader, and he had managed to orchestrate an ambush. The fact that they made it out at all, much less unbroken and with bags full of loot, is miraculous.

Vilkas follows the road outside the city down to Pelagia Farms, then walks alongside the river at a comfortable pace, face turned toward the warmth of the afternoon sun. As much as he wants to find Mayenor, he can’t help but take a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty of his homeland. Skyrim is a harsh mistress, with cruel winters and summers that often leave crops withered and dry, but her beauty is unmatched—or, he assumes it is, seeing as he’s never traveled anywhere else, unlike May. A few times, as he lay sleepily beside his snoozing lover, he’s thought about the possibility of traveling with her, of leaving Jorrvaskr behind and setting out to see the world with the feisty little blonde at his side. But Whiterun is his home, where he’s spent his entire life, where his brother lives and always will live. And, a factor he refuses to consider, Mayenor might not want a companion on her journeys.

Vilkas had expected to find Mayenor near Honningbrew Meadery, maybe even under the bridge that crosses the river, but he quickly realizes she’s nowhere to be seen, and worry begins to tickle at the back of his mind. Though he knows, logically, that she’s perfectly capable of protecting herself from most anything Skyrim’s wilderness could throw at her, he feels responsible for her now, like it’s his job—his duty, his  _honor_ —to protect her at all times. He picks up his pace a bit, stepping off the road to walk into the valley that stretches between the walls of Whiterun and the river of the same name. In the near distance, he can see a figure splashing around on the shore, and, as he gets closer, he can’t stop a smile from stretching across his face.

Mayenor’s boots lie on the ground a few feet away from her, and the pants of her newly-repaired leather armor are rolled up around her calves, just as her sleeves are pulled over her elbows. She’s ankle-deep in the cool, rushing water, eyes trained on something below the surface, looking intense. He approaches quietly, not wanting to startle whatever she’s tracking, but she sighs and stomps out of the water shortly before he arrives.

“Having a tough time?” He asks in a low rumble. His voice does that around her: its pitch deepens and its edges soften and its volume drops. She changes him just by being near, and it scares him,

“Damn fish aren’t biting today,” she answers, nose wrinkled in frustrated disgust. He loves the way she scrunches up her face when she doesn’t get her way, and he chuckles at the sight. His amusement makes her scowl. “Keep laughing, see if I come see you tonight.”

It’s an empty threat, and they both know it. Nighttime is the only chance they get to be together without the other Companions discovering their secret romance. Vilkas wants to keep it hidden because even he’s not sure what to make of it, and he likes to think that she wants it secret for the same reason. Whatever her motivation, Vilkas knows she won’t sacrifice their time together.

“What are you trying to catch, anyway?” He asks, ignoring her threat.

“I  _was_ just gathering nirnroot,” she says, “but then I figured I’d try to catch some fish— _any_ fish—while I was out here. But they just don’t bite here like they do in Riften.”

The mention of Brynjolf’s city sends a tightness through Vilkas’ gut: he’s had Mayenor to himself for over a fortnight now, but he knows it’s only temporary—and he knows she was someone else’s long before she became his. He can’t help but wonder sometimes if she’ll go back to the thief once she decides to leave Whiterun again.

As though sensing Vilkas’ uneasiness, Mayenor leans up to ghost a kiss across his jaw, and his fights back a shudder. The simplest touch of her lips is enough to make him weak-kneed.

“Go back to Jorrvaskr,” she murmurs, looking up at him through her lashes the way she does when she wants to get her way. “I’ll be back in a little while. And the sun’s almost down… The town will go to sleep soon.” She doesn’t have to elaborate: he knows that when sleep descends on Whiterun, his night has only just begun. After another swift kiss, he treks back toward the city.

* * *

 

It’s well before dawn when Mayenor slips from beneath the furs of Vilkas’ bed. Once standing, she turns to look at him over her bare shoulder, and it’s hard for her to hold back a small smile. She’s not as attached to him as he is to her, but something about him touches her heart in a way Brynjolf never did. Brynjolf had been a skilled lover, to say the least, and had taken her to places she’d never known existed. Vilkas is clumsier, true, but he has an authenticity that takes her breath away.

She shakes her head to clear it, then turns to gather her clothes from where they’d ended up strewn across the room. Each item she dons reminds her of how it was removed, and, for a second, she considers sneaking back into bed, retreating back into Vilkas’ strong, warm arms. But she doesn’t. She retrieves her supply pack from behind a bookcase and slings it over her shoulder, then, with one final look at her slumbering lover, she flits into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.

On the main floor, the ever-cleaning Tilma sweeps diligently at a corner, and Mayenor sighs. She’d known the chances of making a clean getaway were slim, but she’d still hoped. As she steps off the stairs, Tilma looks up. Her tired eye flick between Mayenor’s sheepish face and the stuffed pack on her back, and she knows what’s happening.

“Safe travels, Companions,” she says stiffly. Mayenor isn’t surprised she’s brusque: she had practically raised the twins, and here Mayenor is sneaking out on one after getting his hopes up.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, shuffling toward the front door without looking at Tilma again. As she slips out into the muggy night air, the door closes behind her with a click that seems deafening in the silence.


	14. Hide and Seek

Snow flurries float through the air when Vilkas has finally had enough. He’s grown moodier with each passing day that Mayenor’s been gone, and it’s gotten to the point that he barely even leaves his room—and when he does, it’s only to beat the shit out of training dummies. It’s not even Mayenor’s absence that tears him apart—it’s that she didn’t say goodbye. And he feels like an absolute idiot for caring so much about such a simple courtesy, but _damn it all_ , it’s destroying him from the inside out.

And then there’s all the turmoil in Skyrim to make it worse. Rumors of the Dark Brotherhood’s resurgence had started up shortly after Mayenor’s disappearance, and he has a sick hunch that she’s got something to do with it. He’s seen her kill; he knows she’s got what it takes. It doesn’t even bother him that the woman he loves may have taken in with a band of murderers; what scares him more is the thought that maybe she _hasn’t_. Mayenor has made more than her fair share of enemies throughout her time in Skyrim, many of them influential and demented enough to summon the Dark Brotherhood for assistance. And, though Mayenor is an excellent fighter, nothing can stop a Dark Brotherhood assassin.

So he goes to Aela’s office late one night, determination tightening his jaw. He knocks, and, after a moment, receives an exasperated _enter._

“Ah, Vilkas.” She greets him with one eyebrow raised. “Shouldn’t you be drunk by now? It’s well after dark.” Her words make Vilkas scowl: though he’d once been respected by his fellow Companions for both his fighting prowess and sound mind, he’s becoming something of an in-house joke now. He’d turned to the bottle following Mayenor’s disappearance, and he’s had some trouble turning back: he’s sober about as often as he is happy these days.

“I’m leaving,” he grunts, deciding to ignore her comment. This gets her attention, and she sits up straight in her chair.

“What do you mean, _leaving_?” She asks slowly.

“I mean what I said. I’m leaving. You’ll have to find someone else to run the Jarl’s errands with Farkas. I won’t be here.”

“And… Where are you going?” He doesn’t answer, and his silence clearly states that it’s none of her business. Nevertheless, she nods, brow furrowing. “It’s May, isn’t it? I’ve been worried, too. I know she’s been gone longer than this before, but something just doesn’t seem right.”

“How did you know?” Vilkas asks after several moments of silence, once he’s gotten over his surprise. Aela answers him with a wry smile.

“You’re not the first Companion to love someone who will never love you first,” she says simply, and Vilkas thinks of Skjor. Though he, at least, stays in one place, he’s every bit as distant as Mayenor.

“Go find her,” Aela says quietly, interrupting Vilkas’s thoughts. “I’ll tell the others you’re on a job. But what about Farkas? He won’t know what to do without you here.”

“He’ll have to figure it out,” Vilkas replies solemnly. His brother was the main reason that he had waited this long to go looking for his wayward love, but he had finally decided that it was time for Farkas to find his own way. Vilkas had other matters to attend to.

“When will you leave?” Aela asks.

“Dawn.” She nods.

“Do you have any idea where to look?” Vilkas’s lips twist into a grimace as he thinks on his one lead: Brynjolf.

“I know where to start.”  

* * *

 

The guards greet him as he leaves in the grey pre-dawn light the next morning, and he nods vaguely when they all ask if he’s off on another mission for the Jarl. He departs with the customary “godspeed, Companion” ringing in his ears and turns his mount toward Riften. The Companions are rarely asked to handle problems in the Rift, and it’s been years since Vilkas has traveled this road, and somehow the knowledge that he’s doing so of his own choice, free of a Companion contract. He’s never ridden from Whiterun his own man, and it’s a feeling he could get used to. Maybe he can understand Mayenor’s fear of commitment, after all.

He trots up to the gates of Riften with the afternoon sun making its way toward the horizon to his left. He leaves his horse at the stables beside the main gate, then makes his way toward the inn nearest the gate: The Bee and Barb. It’s not a large inn, nothing like Jorrvaskr or even the Bannered Mare, but it’s cozy and well-attended by the locals. He steps up to the bar, taking a seat in an empty stool, and looks into the moist eyes of the Argonian barmaid.

“One of your best,” he says, the weariness from a day of travel evident in his voice. She smiles politely at him and turns away to retrieve his drink; he notices the dagger strapped around her waist. The streets of Riften, he knows, are much more dangerous than those of Whiterun, and he takes a moment to decide if this woman is looking to protect herself or deal some damage. When she turns back with a bottle of Blackbriar Reserve, though, he remembers that he doesn’t care.

“I was wondering if you could give me some information,” he says as she begins to move away. She stops and turns back to look at him.

“That depends, landstrider,” she says quietly, her voice carrying the signature raspy hiss of her species. “What do you want to know?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Vilkas continues, taking a gulp of his mead to fortify his nerves: the last place he wants to be is in Brynjolf’s town, surrounded by Brynjolf’s people. “His name is Brynjolf. Do—” Before Vilkas can finish his question, the Argonian woman snarls so fiercely that his fingers twitch toward the dagger he’s taken to hiding up his sleeve—another habit picked up from Mayenor. Quickly, another Argonian appears at Vilkas’s side. 

“Apologies, landstrider,” he says hastily, eyeing his kinsman. “Keerava has—quite a temper at times. What can we help you with?”

“I’m looking for a man named Brynjolf. Do you know him?” Again, the thief’s name brings a frown to the Argonian’s face.

“You’d do well not to mention that name in polite company,” the male says lowly, and Vilkas shakes his head.

“He’s no friend of mine. He has information I need, that’s all. Please, just tell me where I can find him.”

“The sewers,” Keerava spits, scaly lip curling in disgust. “Precisely where his kind belongs.”

“The Thieves Guild headquarters is located somewhere in the Ratway—the sewer,” Keerava’s companion adds, and Vilkas notes that he is certainly the calmer of the two. “I wouldn’t suggest going down there, though. They’re not the most civilized bunch.” As he says this, he lowers his voice and flicks his gaze across the room to a dark-haired woman. Though she’s looking away, Vilkas can tell she’s been listening.

“Is she…?” He asks, and the lizard man nods. Vilkas downs the rest of his mead in a few deep gulps, then thanks the pair and heads for the door next to the dark woman. Before he can get to her, she slips out the door before him, and by the time he gets outside, she’s disappeared. He curses under his breath, knowing she’s gone to warn Brynjolf and his men. He turns back and retreats into the inn.

“She’s gone to warn them I’m here,” he tells the Argonians, grimacing.

“Going down there now would be suicide,” Keerava says. “Tell him, Jei.” The male nods solemnly.

“Stay here for the night. When Sapphire tells Brynjolf you’re looking for him, he’ll come find you. He’s too prideful to resist a summons.” Vilkas nods his appreciation, then follows Talen-Jei up the stairs by the door and to a small bedroom. He offers the man a few septims in exchange, but the Argonian shakes his head. “Not from you, Companion. It is our honor to host you.” Vilkas looks surprised. “Keerava may not recognize the wolf armor, but I lived in Whiterun for a time. You are welcome here.”

“I didn’t realize the Companions held any respect here,” Vilkas admits, something akin to a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re an honorable group, and honor is something Riften desperately needs. Besides, one of your number did me a favor once. I’m forever in her debt.” At this, Vilkas whips his gaze up to meet Talen-Jei’s.

“One of us? In Riften?” He asks, feeling his pulse quicken. He knows Talen-Jei can only be referring to Mayenor.

“Yes, a young girl. Mayenor. She used to live here, though I haven’t seen her in a long time. Her housecarl says she’s off adventuring.”

“She has a house here?” Vilkas presses, tone intense. Talen-Jei looks taken aback by his fervor.

“Yes… Honeyside. Across the canal. It’s a beautiful home, I hear. The Jarl was very happy Mayenor decided to buy it. To have the Dragonborn living in Riften… There’s hope for this city yet.” As Vilkas’s jaw drops open, Talen-Jei pauses to listen to the murmur of voices from downstairs, then excuses himself and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Vilkas drops onto the mattress.

Mayenor, the Dragonborn? All of a sudden, it all makes sense to him: that she survived Helgen, that she killed the dragon at the Western Watchtower, that she always felt something pulling her home to Skyrim—even the fire than burns behind her eyes. It’s all because she’s _Dragonborn_. _That_ is why she came home to Skyrim; _that_ is why she finds it impossible to settle: she has a destiny to fulfill, and until she does, she’ll never be able to sate the wanderlust that controls her.

Vilkas takes a few minutes to ponder the dots he was somehow unable to connect—her prowess with magic, the feeling of quiet power that radiates from her—before remembering the more pressing news: that she had a house within the city, and, what’s more, a housecarl that might know where she is. With that in mind, he sets down his pack and stands, stretching muscles stiff from riding, and heads back down the stairs, careful to take his money with him. He doesn’t trust this city.

He finds Honeyside relatively easily after getting additional directions from Talen-Jei, but he hesitates outside the door. What if Mayenor is in there? What would he say to her? How angry she’d made him, how he was an alcoholic now thanks to her, how he missed everything about her more than he’d ever imagined possible? And what if Brynjolf is in there with her? What if they’ve gotten back together and he had just been a distraction while her arm healed? And if she’s _not_ there? Then all his worries and fears will live on until he _does_ find her.

Finally, he knocks.

A redheaded woman dressed in full armor answers, looking suspicious. “Yes?” She asks.

“I’m looking for Mayenor,” Vilkas says, deciding not to beat around the bush.

“The lady is not in, and hasn’t been for quite a while.” The woman hesitates, then gives Vilkas an anxious look. “Do you know where she is? Is she safe?” As soon as the question leaves her lips, Vilkas feels his heart drop. The housecarl doesn’t know any more than he does, meaning she’ll be no help to him.

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I haven’t seen her since she and Master Brynjolf fought,” she says, shaking her head. “I haven’t even seen _him_ around, really, except selling his wares in the marketplace.” She snaps her mouth shut, eyeing Vilkas. “I’ve said too much. I don’t know where My Lady is; goodnight.”

Vilkas doesn’t even wait for the door to be slammed in his face before he turns to trudge back to The Bee and Barb, at once disappointed and encouraged. Though he doesn’t know anything more about where Mayenor might be, he at least knows that she and Brynjolf haven’t been together—not at her house, at least, and that’s as good a place as any to start. He falls to his bed as soon as he gets back to the inn and, tired from a day of travelling and disappointments, soon falls to a restless sleep.

   


	15. Blindsighted

He awakens with a start and reaches for the sword he always keeps beside his bed, only to find it’s not there. Quelling panic, he scrambles to grab the dagger he’d set on the bedside table before falling asleep earlier; it’s nowhere to be found. His bow and arrows are leaning against the wall at the foot of the bed—gone. Finally, his hands find a pack of matches, and he lights the candle by the bed, tensed and ready for a fight. He’d locked the door before going to sleep, but he should have realized locks mean nothing in Riften. As his eyes adjust to the sudden, flickering light, he sees a familiar redhead lounging in the seat beside the door, Vilkas’s dagger balanced point-down on his thumb.

“Good morning,” Brynjolf purrs, a grin cutting his handsome face. Vilkas scowls, and Brynjolf tsks at him. “My associate tells me you’ve come to town looking for me, and this is how I’m greeted? Really, Vilkas, you should mind your manners a bit better. You’re in _my_ town now, after all.”

“Give me my sword,” Vilkas grunts, words slightly slurred with lingering sleep.

“I don’t think so. It’s safe outside with Sapphire until we finish our little chat.” Brynjolf flicks the dagger into the air and catches it by the blade between his thumb and pointer finger, then leans forward in the chair. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Mayenor?” Vilkas snaps, not interested in playing games. Surprised registers on Brynjolf’s face.

“She’s not with you?”

“You don’t know where she is?” Vilkas feels despair creep into his mind. Brynjolf’s surprise is replaced with a smirk.

“She left you, didn’t she? I knew she would. She always does.”

“Answer my question.” Vilkas’s voice is little more than a growl. “Do you know where she is?”

“If she’s not with the Companions and she’s not with us… That only leaves one option.” Brynjolf’s brows knit together in a ghost of worry. “She’s gone back to Astrid.”

“Who’s Astrid?” Vilkas asks, and Brynjolf narrows his eyes, gazing at Vilkas for a long, silent moment, as though deciding whether or not to entrust him with some sort of privileged information. Apparently, he deems Vilkas worthy.

“Astrid is the leader of the Dark Brotherhood. Or, the faction of the Dark Brotherhood that operates in Skyrim. She tracked May down sometime last year, before she even came to me. After a few jobs, she decided murder wasn’t for her, but… Well, you must’ve changed her mind somehow.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Vilkas snarls. “I didn’t even know she was involved with the Dark Brotherhood.”

“If you hadn’t guessed it, you’re an idiot,” Brynjolf tells him conversationally, earning himself a black look from Vilkas. Of course he’d suspected Mayenor’s involvement with the Dark Brotherhood: he had decided it was the lesser of the two evils and that she was safer as an assassin than as one of their victims.

“And if May’s back with the Brotherhood…” Brynjolf frowns, staring fixedly at the ground, apparently forgetting Vilkas’s presence.

“What about it?” Vilkas presses after a moment, and the thief looks up to meet his eye with a wry smile.

“Do you remember the attempt on the Emperor’s life last month?” He asks, and Vilkas nods, feeling dread settle into his gut like a lead weight. “That was the Dark Brotherhood. And after, the Penitus Oculatus wiped them out. Completely.”

“Mayenor’s not dead.” He says it with such certainty that he almost believes it. “She’s just… not. It’s impossible.”

“I hope you’re right,” Brynjolf sighs, frowning. He shakes his head. “I should never have left…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Vilkas scoffs. “After you left Falkreath, she stayed with the Companions for months. She couldn’t have cared less about you leaving.”

“Good,” Brynjolf shoots back with a toothy grin. “Then it’s your fault she’s dead.”

“ _She’s not dead!_ ” Vilkas roars, and Brynjolf gives him a pitying smile.

“My, you’ve got it bad. You actually think she cares about you. Well, let me share a little wisdom with you.” He leans forward, eyes hard. “Mayenor’s number one concern is Mayenor. No one else enters into her selfish little mind.” He sits back in the chair, jaw clenched for a moment, before relaxing.

“But if she’s alive, she’s probably hurt, and she’s certainly not going to be able to go to the Temple of Kynareth and tell them she was injured in the Imperial raid. I’ll have to find her.”

“ _I_ will find her,” Vilkas argues. “I didn’t leave Whiterun to have some pretty thief take over my mission.”

“I don’t care enough to argue with you. We’ll go together. To find a thief, you need a thief; you’ll never find her without my contacts.” Vilkas hesitates for a long moment, looking Brynjolf over. He knows the redhead is right: if Mayenor doesn’t want to be found, he’s going to have one hell of a time locating her, especially considering Brynjolf is his only lead. Finally, he sighs.

“Fine. Where do we look?”

“I’m not sure, myself. But if there’s anyone who knows if any of the Dark Brotherhood survived, it’s Devlin.” Brynjolf stands and peers down at Vilkas, who is still sitting beneath the covers. “Go back to sleep. I’ll come find you when it’s time to leave.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Vilkas jumps from the mattress and glowers at the thief. “Wherever you go, I go. I don’t trust you not to leave me behind.” Brynjolf grins.

“Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look. Alright, gather your things. Sapphire will lead you to me when you’re ready.” He turns to leave, and Vilkas hesitates.

“Why are you helping me? You hate Mayenor.” Brynjolf stops but doesn’t turn around.

“I only hate her because I love her, Companion. Don’t keep me waiting.” And with that, he disappeared through the door, shutting it behind him without a sound.

Vilkas dresses quickly, mind spinning. If Brynjolf is still in love with Mayenor, as he seems to be, then Vilkas isn’t sure he wants him around when they find her. On the other hand, what choice does he have? If this Devlin person is the only person who might know where Mayenor is, then he’s the only person that matters at the moment. And if Vilkas has to set aside his pride and ethics and work with the King of Thieves, then so be it.

He gathers his things quickly, then steps out into the inn. He can hear people downstairs talking and laughing, but the top floor is deserted save for himself and a beautiful woman with dark, almost black, hair. She gives him a wide-eyed smile. Vilkas recognizes her as the girl from earlier; she must have been the one to tell Brynjolf someone was looking for him.

“I’m Sapphire. I’m supposed to take you to Brynjolf when you’re ready. Are you ready?” Vilkas nods, and she holds out her hands: in them is his sword, bow, and dagger. “Your weapons. It’s a sign of good faith from us to you; we trust you won’t find need to use them on us. Now, follow me.” She doesn’t even give him time to answer, and he straps his weapons into place as he thuds down the stairs behind her noiseless feet.

“Where are we going?” He asks, looking around the inn as they flit through it. He wants someone to see him leave with this shady creature; if something happens, he wants her held accountable. He makes eye contact with Keerava and Talen-Jei, and they offer him solemn nods as he passes by.

“Home,” Sapphire responds simply, and her feral grin reminds him of Mayenor. They have the same glint in their eyes, the same determination, and Vilkas knows not to trust it.

The walk to a set of steps leading down to the canal, and she leads him down them, past the sign for an alchemy shop—Vilkas recalls what Mayenor said about the fish biting better in Riften, and wonders if this is where she shopped—and along the water until they reach a gated door. She opens the gate and steps into the blackness of the sewers, beckoning Vilkas to follow. He hesitates, knowing he could well be going to his death. Then, he thinks of Mayenor: alone, scared, hurt. He charges into the darkness without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to put the notes at the end this time so I wouldn't spoil anything, but... AH, Brynjolf and Vilkas working together! I've been WAITING for this!
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ♥ topside


	16. Meet the Family

Sapphire leads Vilkas through endlessly twisting tunnels, and she does so in complete darkness, apparently navigating entirely from memory. Many times, he finds himself running into walls or nearly stepping off of ledges, and each time he fumbles, he hears her stifled giggle. A few times, he thinks that if he thought he could find his own way back, he’d turn around; but he thinks of Mayenor and plunges onward. Finally, he catches a glimpse of a flickering light ahead, and they emerge into a small, stone-walled room sparsely decorated with only the table that holds the lantern. Sapphire leads him to the right, down a small slope and to a heavy door. Then, she turns to eye him.

“You’re outnumbered here,” she tells him, as though he hasn’t already considered that fact. “If you draw your weapon, we will kill you. So behave yourself.” And, with that, she opens the door.

Vilkas had been expecting to see a dark, dank room, lit only by one or two candles, with unsavory individuals sharpening knives or counting stolen goods; instead, he sees a cheerfully lit, high-ceilinged chamber circling around a reservoir. On either side of the water are shops, and Vilkas can identify a blacksmith and an alchemist before Sapphire ushers him around the walkway. Hanging over the water is a wooden platform, and a pair of women sits talking at a table there, their eyes following Vilkas as he circles to the back of the room, where, he notes with awe, they’ve set up a makeshift bar.

“Welcome to the Ragged Flagon.” Vilkas turns to face Brynjolf, who leans against a crate and looks around with pride, absolutely beaming. “Not what you expected from us thieves, huh? Thought you’d find a moldy hive of scum and villainy?” Though Vilkas doesn’t respond, his answer is clear on his face.

“This place used to be like that,” says a harsh-looking blonde from her place at a table, “until Mayenor turned it all around.” A few people lift their tankards and give a call of here, here! in agreement, and Brynjolf smirks openly at Vilkas. He knows the other man doesn’t want to be reminded that Mayenor is a thief or that she once lived in these sewers with Brynjolf by her side.

“Where’s Delvin?” Vilkas growls, not in the mood to entertain Brynjolf’s boasting.

“Say whuh?” Comes a voice from behind the Companion, and he turns to look at the speaker. He’s a short man, pudgy, with a bald head and beady, leering eyes: though he seems like a harmless, fat little man, something in his air reminds Vilkas that he, like the others down here, is a criminal.

“I have a question for you,” Brynjolf says, pushing off from the crate he’s leaning on and going instead to sit at the table across from his mark. “You’ve heard about what happened to the Dark Brotherhood, yes?” Delvin sobers immediately, looking solemn.

“Aye. It’s a bad thing that happened to them. The Brotherhood has a long history of ending rulers’ reigns; this time theirs ended. Badly.” Brynjolf nods almost as though he agrees that the faction’s disbandment is a shame.

“Would you happen to know if anyone survived, then?”

“You mean Mayenor?” A sly smile crosses his lips. “I may know a thing or two about her whereabouts.” Vilkas sees Brynjolf tense just as he does; his heart, he knows, is beating out his chest.

“Tell me,” he demands, and Delvin purses his lips.

“May’d have my head if I told anyone… She took great pains not to be seen when she came back—”

Before the little man can finish his sentence, Vilkas has the front of his armor balled into his fists; their faces are inches apart, Vilkas’s teeth bared in a snarl. Around him, a subtle flutter of movement announces that the thieves have pulled their weapons, that they’re readying themselves to protect their own, but Vilkas doesn’t care.

“Tell me where she is,” Vilkas growls, “or I’ll kill you.”

“That wouldn’t be very smart, would it?” He quips, making a show of being unperturbed by his current predicament. “I’m the only one who knows where she is. You’ll never find her without me.”

“At least I’d get the satisfaction of hearing your bones snap one—by—one under my fingers,” Vilkas hisses, tightening his grip. Devlin goes white and glances to Brynjolf for help.

“Tell us,” Brynjolf insists, apparently surprising his fellows with his candor. Delvin gulps.

“Well, I guess I see why she likes you,” he grumbles, glaring at Vilkas. “She always did love animals. What’s left of the Brotherhood is in Dawnstar, at an old sanctuary there. I don’t know any more than that; she wouldn’t tell me exactly where the sanctuary is. All I know is it’s north of the town, hidden behind a black door. You can’t get in without the password, and I don’t know it.”

“We’ll deal with that later,” Brynjolf says, waving a hand dismissively. “Let him go, Vilkas.” When Vilkas doesn’t move, Brynjolf frowns. “Let him go. He’s told us what we need.”

“How do we know he’s not lying? You thieves aren’t known for telling the truth.”

“Why would I lie? You think I’m not worried about the little bitch? She lost her entire family—that changes someone.” Vilkas lets him go, then, but the scowl stays painted on his lips. He doesn’t want to think that the Brotherhood was Mayenor’s family; he wants to be her family, him and Farkas and Aela and all the others. And yet, as he’s reminded by a glance around the Ragged Flagon, she constantly chooses someone else.

As though sensing Vilkas’s thoughts, Brynjolf smirks even as he stands from Delvin’s table and steps over to the Companion.

“Follow me. We have a trip to plan,” he says simply, leading Vilkas away from the others and down what looks like a hallway. There’s a door at the end of it, nestled at the bottom of a short slope, and Vilkas waits for Brynjolf to go through into what is undoubtedly home to the gang’s living quarters. But Brynjolf takes a sharp right and stands face to face with a shut cupboard, and Vilkas arches an eyebrow. The thief opens the cupboard and then, still smirking, pushes aside a false back. Grudgingly impressed, Vilkas follows him and waits for him to shut the door behind them.

At the end of a short hallway, Vilkas stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening. They’ve emerged into a huge, circular room, with beds tucked against the walls and another cistern of water in the middle. Over this cistern, though, is a three-pronged bridge that meets in a round platform over the water; straight across from the entrance are two huge, intricate golden doors. Vilkas can only imagine what stolen treasures lay behind those doors.

“C’mon,” Brynjolf grunts, failing to suppress a grin at the Companion’s surprise. He heads across the bridge, toward the big doors, and settles down at a desk. Behind the desk are shelves laden with golden statues, jeweled crowns, and what appears to be an enormous diamond. Vilkas scans the loot while Brynjolf settles into a chair and steeples his fingers.

“So. It seems we’ll be working together for a while,” he says conversationally, eyeing Vilkas. The larger man fights not to squirm under the redhead’s gaze: something about him, undoubtedly the calculating glint in his eyes, unnerves the Companion.

“So it seems,” Vilkas grunts in reply, tearing his gaze from the treasures. “We should leave as soon as possible.”

“My thoughts exactly. I can have my bag packed in twenty minutes.” Vilkas blinks, surprised.

“You want to leave tonight?” He asks a bit dumbly, and Brynjolf quirks an eyebrow, pinning Vilkas with one of his charming smiles.

“What, isn’t finding May your top priority? We can wait until daylight if you want, I suppose…” He trails off, a satisfied smirk replacing his grin when Vilkas scowls.

“No. We’ll leave immediately.”

“Excellent. Meet me by the front gate in twenty minutes, then.”

Vilkas thinks about arguing, about pointing out that Brynjolf could easily slip away and leave Vilkas to fend for himself—but then he realizes he doesn’t care. He knows now that Mayenor is in Dawnstar, and that’s all the information he needs in order to find her. Now that he knows where to start, nothing will stop him. So, with a few directions from Brynjolf, he manages to navigate his way out the back exit and retreats to his room in the Bee and Barb. He’s surprised to find all of his things still intact and present—but then, he reminds himself bleakly, he’s in league with the thieves now.

He’s one of them.


	17. Breaching Security

Rarely has Vilkas travelled this far north, and the bitter winds bite to his bone with every gust. When the men camp at night, the Companion finds himself huddling into his furs with naught but his memories of home to keep him warm; worse, though, is the fact that his only wish is to have Mayenor tucked into the furs with him, bare body pressed tightly against his. As he drifts into an uncomfortable sleep night after night, he imagines the warmth of her skin, remembers the heat that sparks between them every time their lips meet, and he can’t hold back an overwhelming feeling of despair.

He and Brynjolf have made excellent time on their journey from Riften to Dawnstar; even so, it’s been nearly two weeks since he left Whiterun, and he’s dismayed by the homesickness that consumes him. How, he often wonders, does Mayenor stand flitting from place to place, group to group, with no home to anchor her? He knows where he belongs, and being away from it for so long is crippling to his morale; still, he soldiers on and stays silent about his personal discomforts. Ever at his side and ever ready with some infuriating quip, Brynjolf seems perfectly content to leave his fellows behind for as long as it takes. Then again, Vilkas thinks bitterly, a hive of thieves is hardly a _family_.

His only consolation is that Brynjolf shivers just as violently as he does when the wind whips through the trees.

They reach Dawnstar on their sixteenth day together, and the townsfolk, hands shaking with fear, point them northeast when they ask about the black door. Every local seems to have heard of the door; every man and woman retreats into their homes at the mention of it. The men ignore the peoples’ warnings and follow their stammered directions until they’re hopelessly lost in the wilderness. As night falls, they pitch their camp under a rocky outcropping in the mountainside and try to nurture a fire despite the endless winds threatening to extinguish it. Brynjolf settles into his sleeping roll shortly after eating, but Vilkas sits up for a while, staring into the weak flames, and allows himself a few moments to think.

What is he doing? That’s the question that weighs on his mind day after day, more heavily when the going gets rough. He’s risking everything to find a girl that risked everything to get away from him. What sick determination keeps him going? What modicum of pride makes him think anything will change just because he’s undergone such an ordeal to find her? She’s run away from everyone she’s ever gotten too close to—he and Brynjolf are prime examples—but who’s to say she’ll run back to him when she leaves the Dark Brotherhood?

But then, a little voice in the back of Vilkas’s mind reasons, she came to him when she left Brynjolf. Even though she didn’t realize it at the time, Vilkas is confident there’s something between them—something that she can’t possibly share with anyone else—that draws her back to him time after time. She’s come home to the Companions, yes, but Vilkas finds himself believing part of her has always come home to him.

He’s snapped from his thoughts by a noise outside the firelight, and his hand goes to the sword lying beside him. He stands and readies the weapon, gripping it tightly in his right hand, and squints to see farther into the wilderness.

He hears the arrows whizzing through the air even before he feels pain blossom across his arm, and he drops his sword in surprise, hissing an ugly curse that wakes Brynjolf from his dreams. The thief springs to his feet, a dagger in each hand, and eyes Vilkas with a frenzy in his gaze. The Companion kneels to gather his sword, left hand clasped around the shaft of the arrow that juts from his right bicep.

“What happened? Who is it?” Brynjolf asks, tensing and scanning their surroundings.

“Fuck if I know,” Vilkas grunts in reply, bracing himself and pulling the head of the arrow from his arm with a growl of pain.

“You’ve made a mistake, boys,” says a soft, cooing voice from the darkness.

“Fuck,” Brynjolf breathes, eyes widening. “It’s the Brotherhood.”

“So you _purposefully_ sought us out?” Another voice, this one young and feminine, asks. “Brave.”

“Hardly,” the first voice snorts. “More like _idiotic_.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” Vilkas says once he regains his voice, discarding the bloodied arrow on the ground and straightening.

“Too late for that, Companion,” the man—Vilkas has decided he must be Altmeri; no one else possesses such a dangerously smooth voice—chuckles. “You’ve set up your last camp, I’m afraid.”

“Take us to Mayenor.” Brynjolf demands, suddenly brave. The voices fall silent, and the men exchange wary glances. They know better than to think that the assassins have left; instead, the silence sickens them with fear of the unknown.

Suddenly, white heat flares in the back of Vilkas’s head; as he falls to the ground, he sees Brynjolf slump face-forward into the snow beside him. Just before his eyes flicker shut and the light fades from his vision, he realizes the white snow is stained red with their blood.

* * *

 

He wakes up in a dim, cold, windowless chamber, and the first thing he notices is _pain_. His head throbs with it; his arm aches where the arrow pierced the muscle; his wrists sting from chafing caused by the manacles that encircle them. He lets out a low groan before he’s even fully awake, and a wry chuckle answers it.

“Some welcome, huh?” Brynjolf rasps. Vilkas turns his head to look at the other man, wincing as he does so.

“You look like shit,” he informs the thief, who snorts softly.

“You’re not so hot yourself, Companion.” The two stare at each other for a long moment, and, for the first time since they met so long ago outside Falkreath, Vilkas feels as though he truly understands the redhead.

“Where are we?”

“Torture room. Probably in the Dawnstar Sanctuary.” Brynjolf pauses, considering. “Or Hell. I’m not really sure at this point.”

“How long have you been awake?” Vilkas asks then, noticing the long, angry, red whelps striping Brynjolf’s torso. The other man follows his gaze and grimaces.

“Not long. I picked the lock on my chains. They didn’t like that.” Vilkas hesitates before asking his next question.

“Have you seen—”

“No.”

“Do you think she’s even here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care anymore. This is all your fucking fault.”

“Your dumbass friend told us to come here!” Vilkas argues, scowling. Brynjolf opens his mouth to respond, but a door to their left opens, and he falls silent immediately. Vilkas quickly follows suit.

A slight figure dressed all in black enters. The shape is definitively feminine, but a shroud covers the woman’s face, all except for her eyes, which are too hooded in darkness to be seen. Behind her, a huge Redguard steps into the room, followed by two more black-clad figures, and closes the door.

“Who are they, Listener?” Asks the taller figure, and Vilkas recognizes his voice as the one from before they were kidnapped.

“I don’t know.” He feels his throat go dry when the shrouded woman speaks; though he can’t make out any of her features, he knows that voice, and it sets his heart to racing. Mayenor steps closer to them, and Vilkas almost speaks, but he remembers the whip-marks criss-crossing Brynjolf’s back and decides against it. As she gets nearer to him, the light catches the slit in her mask, and Vilkas sees the green eyes that have haunted his dreams these past months. He can’t help but suck in his breath.

“Yannen, Erelie, leave,” the large Redguard says, and the two black-clad figures, apparently the ones who found Brynjolf and Vilkas, look taken-aback.

“What? We found them!” The Breton girl whines, and the Redguard snarls at her until she draws back toward her companion. The Altmer catches her elbow comfortingly, but stands tall.

“We deserve to stay and watch,” he says, chin tilting stubbornly into the air. “We could learn something. You know we never get to torture the captives.”

“I said leave,” the man repeats, voice growing impatient. The girl—Erelie—huffs a sigh.

“That’s not fair!” She pouts, and Mayenor whirls suddenly to face her. The rage radiating from her is so strong even Vilkas flinches back toward the wall to which he’s chained.

“ _Leave_ ,” she hisses, and the pair stumbles over one another to obey, slamming the door behind her. Once they’re gone, Mayenor relaxes. “You too, Nazir,” she adds, voice softening to the point it’s almost familiar to Vilkas again. The Redguard shakes his head solemnly.

“No. I know who they are, May. You don’t have to hide from me.” Though Mayenor hesitates, she nods once before turning back to Vilkas and Brynjolf.

As badly as his body burns with pain, it’s nothing compared to the torture in Vilkas’s heart as he watches his beloved transform into someone he doesn’t even know. The Mayenor he knows if strong and fierce, yes, but he would never describe her as cruel or evil. But the way those initiates had fled under her gaze was testament to the fact that she was something terrifying now, something ferocious that scared her underlings.

But, as she surveys the men silently, Vilkas can’t help but see the woman he loves under her thorny new exterior. And, when her gloved hand reaches up to undo the clasps keeping her shroud in place, his heart begins to race all over again. She moves the fabric that obstructs her face, lifts the hood from her hair, and stands before him in all her glory.

“Hello, boys,” she says softly, seriously, glancing at Brynjolf before letting her gaze settle for good on Vilkas. “Welcome to my home.”


	18. Hard Answers

Vilkas isn’t sure how to react when Mayenor welcomes them. It’s not the fact that she’s so callous, so cavalier about his and Brynjolf’s mistreatment that stings. It’s that treacherous word: _home._ So, this is where she’s decided to settle, he thinks, ripping his gaze from hers and scowling at the blood-stained stones beneath his feet. She could have chosen to be a Companion, to be honorable—but instead, she’s allied herself with murderers. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised, but his heart aches at the confirmation that she will always belong to someone else.

“You going to let us down?” Brynjolf spits, and the venom in his voice distracts Vilkas for a moment. A smirk flickers across Mayenor’s lips, but her eyes remain hard, cold.

“From what Nazir tells me, you’ve already let yourself down.” Her eyes rake across the thief’s chest, and Vilkas feels jealousy bubble unwanted in his gut though he knows she’s only looking at his wounds. “You’ll have to excuse Yannen and Erelie. They’re among our newest recruits and don’t get to torture prisoners often. They were a little too eager to punish you.”

“Oh, no problem,” Brynjolf snarls, sarcasm dripping from his words. “I’m glad they got to have a little fun. Now get us out of these things.”

“I think you’d best stay where you are for now, thief,” the Redguard—Nazir—rumbles. “I don’t trust you to behave yourself.”

“I just want to go home. I got lover boy here; my job’s done. Let me go back to Riften.” Vilkas feels his cheeks color with indignation at the all too accurate title Brynjolf assigns him, but Mayenor doesn’t seem to notice.

“Nazir,” she says conversationally, turning to the burly man, “why don’t you escort our guest back to Dawnstar?” As she speaks, she reaches into the folds of her black armor, producing a long strip of blood red cloth. She tosses it to Nazir as he passes her, heading for Brynjolf, who eyes the other man suspiciously. As Nazir fastens the cloth around Brynjolf’s eyes, Mayenor gives a tight smile. “It was so nice of you to visit, Brynjolf. Please give the others my love.” Nazir undoes the manacles around the thief’s wrists and ankles, then grabs his elbow and jerks him unceremoniously toward the door. Vilkas gets the feeling the Redguard isn’t fond of his captive, and he wonders what interaction the Dark Brotherhood and Brynjolf’s Guild have had in the past. Mayenor reaches out a hand and takes Brynjolf’s other elbow, motioning for Nazir to step away. Eyes shining with an expression Vilkas can’t place, she leans up and brushes a kiss against the thief’s cheek. Vilkas sees the man tense, hears his breath catch; Nazir’s eyes widen slightly with surprise.

“This is goodbye, Bryn.” Her voice is soft and carries a hint of sadness; Vilkas’s gut clenches. “Don’t come after me again.” With that, Nazir steps forward and sweeps Brynjolf out of the room before he has a chance to say anything. Mayenor stands in place for a moment, staring after the thief, then shakes her head and turns to Vilkas.

“You’d do well to take the same advice,” she tells him, stepping closer. “You shouldn’t have tried to find me. What were you thinking, trying to track down the Dark Brotherhood?” She’s less than a foot away now, still coming closer, and his heart beats loudly against his chest. “I thought you were the smart twin.” She reaches up a hand and passes it over his restraints; he feels a throb of Magicka, and the cuffs pop open. He tries to take a step and stumbles; she catches him against her shoulder, and her closeness sends an ache of longing tingling across his mind. “Don’t try to walk. I think you’ve got a concussion; here, sit.” She lowers him down to the ground, and he settles down with a low sigh as his sore muscles protest.

“Yannen shot you.” At her words, he looks down at his sword arm, seeing the crusty crimson of dried blood on his bicep. “I’m sorry. I had no idea it was you—when I sent them to investigate, I never thought _you_ would be here.”

“I _shouldn’t_ be here,” he rumbles, not looking at her. She puts a cool palm against his cheek, and he looks up to see her smiling at him.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. This isn’t the place for a Companion.”

“Then why are you here?” The words are out before he can stop them, and she pulls away from him, stung.

“I’m no Companion.”

“So you’re an assassin? Or a thief? A mage? The Dragonborn?” At his last words, she stumbles back, eyes wide, as though he physically struck her.

“How—How did you know?”

“They speak very highly of you in Riften,” he answers solemnly.

“I don’t deserve their praise. Some Dragonborn I am—the Greybeards summoned me nearly a year ago and I ran. I’m still running.”

“Why?” Vilkas rocks onto his knees, wincing as his head gives a throb, and she flits back to his side, gently forcing him back to the ground.

“Let me heal you. It’s the least I can do.” She places her hands, palms down, over his arrow wound, and he feels the warmth of healing magic spread through him. Suddenly, his arm stops aching and the dizziness that had plagued his conscious fades away. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand up to finger the back of his head where he’d been struck: the wound is completely healed.

“Thanks,” he mutters, dropping his hand back into his lap. She settles back on her knees, gaze flicking around the room and landing anywhere but him. “May,” he starts, and the earnestness in his voice makes her look up in surprise. “What are you doing here? This isn’t you.”

“Isn’t it, though? I know you’ve always thought I was brutal. Don’t think I didn’t see you looking away when I looted bodies. Death has never bothered me. Here, that’s normal.”

“Death is a part of life,” he agrees, making her tilt her head curiously. “It’s unavoidable; it shouldn’t bother you. But that doesn’t mean you should murder people for no reason.”

“I have to assume there’s a reason,” she murmurs, eyes slipping down to the stone floor. “Else I feel guilty. Most of the time it’s easy to see why people want my targets dead—they’re evil. But some people just want to create chaos. Those are the ones I can’t forget.”

Vilkas feels something stir in his chest at the pitiful look in her eyes. It’s true that he’s always found some of her customs unsavory, but he’s always believed—always clung to the idea—that she is basically good, that underneath her tough exterior lies a heart of gold. The sadness in her face as she recalls her jobs proves him correct. He covers one of her knees with one big hand, and she, after a moment of hesitation, places a gloved hand atop his.

“Come home.” He means for the words to sound comforting, strong; instead, his voice rasps with desperation. She pulls her hand back as though his touch burns her.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Vilkas—” She stops and shakes her head.

“Tell me,” he insists gently. Her lips purse into a thin line for a long moment before she draws a deep breath.

“Everywhere I go, tragedy follows. It’s my punishment for running away from my destiny. At the College, I unleashed the Eye of Magnus, and it killed the Archmage. With the Thieves Guild, I killed the Guildmaster. And here—” her voice tightens, and she forces a low breath. “Everyone died because of me. Because Astrid hated me. Arnbjorn, Veezara, Festus, Gabriella—all dead, and it’s _my_ fault.” She glares angrily at the wall to her right, then continues in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper. “I can’t let that happen to the Companions.”

Warm affection swells in Vilkas’s chest as she speaks. She hadn’t been shunning the Companions, then; she was trying to protect them—trying to protect _him_. He wants to reassure her that her friends’ deaths aren’t her fault, that there’s nothing she could have done, but he’s too overwhelmed by emotion to form any words. Instead, he leans forward and puts a hand on her cheek; when she turns to look at him, he captures her mouth in his.

“You should leave,” she says in the breath after they pull apart, and he nearly chokes, feeling his lips burn where hers should be. “It’s time for you to go home.” Though he hadn’t protested, her words are insistent.

“Come with me.” He’s nearly begging, his gaze boring holes into hers. She ghosts her lips against his, and his eyes flicker shut.

“No.” By the time he manages to get his eyes open again, she’s standing and fastening the shroud back around her face. Her eyes shine brightly—too brightly?—in the candlelight. His throat is tight.

“Please. I—We’re worried about you.” He hesitates, hauling himself to his feet, and gulps back his pride. “I need you home.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. My life is here now.”

Her words are so callous that they cause anger to rise in his chest, and he steps forward to snatch her wrist between his thick fingers.

“You _left_ me,” he hisses, all the pain and indignation he’s suffered bubbling to the surface. She regards him calmly, as though she’d expected this. “You let me fall in love with you and then you just _left._ I deserve an explanation, at least.”

“I never said anything to make you think I loved you,” she answers evenly, and he feels his heart stutter in his chest. The color drops from his cheeks; his breath freezes in his lungs. Her eyes soften. “I do care about you, Vilkas. But I can’t go back to Whiterun with you. Not yet.”

He’s about to press her, to ask what she means by _not yet_ , but the door opens and admits Nazir. He regards the pair, taking in Vilkas’s anger-heated face and Mayenor’s wrist clutched in his hand, and steps forward, reaching to  snatch Mayenor away from Vilkas. She puts a hand on his arm to stop him, then turns her gaze to Vilkas.

“What do you mean _not yet_?” He asks, and she shakes her head, peeling his fingers away from her wrist.

“It’s time for you to go. Nazir will take you to Dawnstar.”

“Tell me what you mean!” He insists even as Nazir steps over to him. She ignores him, instead stepping over to the door and passing through without a glance back. “ _Tell_ me!” He shouts after her, bolting toward the door. Nazir catches his collar and pulls him back, quickly binding his hands and covering his eyes with the same cloth that had blinded Brynjolf. Vilkas pulls at his bonds, heart pounding in his ears.

“ _May!_ ”

His roar echoes back at him in the silence.


	19. Forgotten Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I know I'm a horrible person. I'm sorry. Life has been really, really hectic, and I've been really struggling with my demons lately. BUT I'm really trying to get back on track and find joy in the things I love again, like writing and Skyrim. That said... Have a chapter! 
> 
> (And please try to forgive me. I promise I'll work harder to get chapters up.)
> 
> ♥ topside

“Is that the best you’ve got?” He taunts, prowling in a circle with his fists in the air. The brunette before him laughs, the noise high and clear like tinkling glass.

“Well I don’t want to hurt you,” she answers coyly, blue eyes shining brightly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that she’s beautiful, but she lunges forward and he dances away with a grin, concentration returning to the fight at hand.

“You almost got a hit in. Come on, don’t hold back—I can take it,” he insists. She cocks her head to the side, hair tumbling in silken rivulets over her shoulder, and gives him a worried, wide-eyed stare.

“Ok,” she relents after a moment. “You asked for it.” She darts forward—he admires her quickness—and swings a punch toward his jaw; he catches it in one hand, gives her wrist a hard twist, and steps away, leaving her fretting over her injury.

“That hurt!” She cries, giving him an accusing look. “That’s my sword hand, you know.”

“We’ll be sure to keep you on light jobs for a while, then,” he chuckles, clapping a big hand on her shoulder.

“Or you can just come with me. I’ll let you be my protector.” Her eyes are half-lidded, her words sultry and smooth, and he lets himself appreciate the feeling of being _wanted_ for once, of being the one to walk away.

“Don’t count on it, kid,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads through the double doors into Jorrvaskr. “I only work with Farkas. Now get your ass in here and let’s have a drink.” He doesn’t turn to make sure she’s following—she always follows him—before taking his usual seat around the table. As though in anticipation of his thirst, Tilma sets a full pitcher of mead before him, running a fond hand across his back as she returns to her sweeping. He settles into his chair with the ease of familiarity; beside him, the new blood pulls up _her_ usual chair: the one to Vilkas’s right.

“Why don’t you work with anyone but Farkas?” She asks, biting into an apple while he downs half a tankard of ale. He eyes her as he drinks, but she’s watching his adam’s apple bob up and down with each gulp. “Don’t you trust anyone else?”

“I trust all my Shield-Siblings,” he answers, ignoring the rest of her question.

“Then why won’t you go on jobs with us— _them_?” She corrects herself quickly at his quirked eyebrow. She hasn’t even been on a single job for the Companions, but she already counts herself among their ranks. “Everyone else has multiple partners—even Farkas works with more than just you.”

Vilkas sucks in a low breath, letting his gaze wander the hall. Athis and Torvald are, as usual, nowhere to be seen, probably down at the Bannered Mare trying to attract some poor woman’s attention. Aela and Skjor had excused themselves to her bedroom before Vilkas had even gone into the training yard. Even Ria is off with Belethor’s young assistant: she claims he paid her for protection while he gathers supplies, but they all know the truth. With spring in the air, everyone’s been bitten by the love bug—all but the brothers, who remain firm bachelors. While the Breton girl stares at him with those little-girl eyes, waiting for an answer to her question, Vilkas reminds himself to keep his mind on the here and now.

“I just don’t,” he answers finally, and her full lips push into a pout.

“That’s a terrible answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“Just tell me why.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“ _No_.”

“But—”

“Drop it, Minna.” She huffs and slumps down in her chair, arms crossed over her amble bosom.

Sometimes, Vilkas can’t help but compare the girl to Mayenor. He tries not to think about his Shield-Sister, tries to pretend she never existed, and she’s made that easier for him by staying away from Jorrvaskr for almost a year, now. But whenever he tries to be attracted to Minna, to give in to her advances, he remembers that she’s not half the woman Mayenor was. She’s stunning, almost to a fault, but she’s spoiled, immature, untested. She’s a terrible fighter—Vilkas is convinced Kodlak only let her in because he’d once fought beside her father—and is only interested in one thing: him. Flattered as he knows he should be, he couldn’t be less interested.

“Hey, let’s go to the Western Watchtower!” She says suddenly, pulling Vilkas from his thoughts. He furrows his brow.

“Why?”

“I heard that’s where the first dragon in Skyrim was killed. I bet there are still scales on the ground—I bet we could find them!” Vilkas can’t help but laugh at her eagerness, but he shakes his head.

“Not interested.”

“You’re no fun,” she snaps, lips settling back into a pout.

“After you fight a few dragons, see how eager you are to hang around their hunting grounds.”

“Do you really think I’ll be able to fight a dragon one day?” Her eyes are shining with hope, and Vilkas almost bites back his answer. But he’s learned that the truth can sting sometimes.

“Not if you don’t build up your sword arm. It’d eat you alive.” She scowls at him, but, just as she opens her mouth to retort, the huge front doors creak open. Vilkas ignores the newcomer, taking advantage of Minna’s distraction to take another draw of mead, but her hand is shaking him to attention before the cup even reaches his lips. He sighs, trying to keep a hold on his annoyance, and glares at her.

“ _What_?”

“I think we’ve got a new recruit.” Minna’s hand is still on Vilkas’s forearm, and he brushes it off disinterestedly.

“Good for us,” he mutters, finally managing a gulp of his mead.

“Hey,” Minna calls toward the door, standing from her chair. “Hey, are you here to join us?” Vilkas spares her a flat look, bemused by her lack of ceremony. “Kodlak’s not here right now. You can hang out until he gets back, though, if you want.” Minna pauses, clearly waiting for some response, and frowns when her words are met with silence. “Hey, are you listening to me?”

“It’s hard not to, isn’t it?”

Vilkas chokes as a familiar voice stings his ears, and Minna turns to slap his back as he splutters on his ale. His antics are met with a chuckle, and, as he gasps for breath, he feels his pulse quicken. Soft footsteps thud down the stairs and around the table; hesitantly, he looks up, and green eyes smile back at him. 

“Hello, Vilkas. It’s nice to see you again.” He struggles to keep his expression calm, determinedly maintaining eye contact.

“Mayenor. It’s been a while.”

“Mm. Nearly a year, I think.” Their words are nothing if not cordial, but the tension between them is thick and heavy; Vilkas feels like he’s suffocating on it.

“Mayenor? The Companion Mayenor?” Minna circles around the table to hover near Mayenor, eyes wide and full of stars. “I thought you were a legend! I’ve never seen you before; I didn’t really think you existed!”

Mayenor lifts an eyebrow and watches the girl gush. Though there are only a few years between the two of them, they look eons apart, Mayenor battle-hardened and fierce and Minna inexperienced and impressionable. Vilkas can’t help but pit one against the other in his mind: though Minna is beautiful, she looks more like a noblewoman than a warrior; Mayenor, with her lean muscles and scuffed armor, looks like a Nordic goddess.

“Well, I’m certainly real,” she drawls, looking bemused.

“You never told me you knew her,” Minna whines, rounding on Vilkas. “She brought down the dragon at the Western Watchtower, did you know that? I bet _she’d_ go look for scales with me.”

“Looking for scales?” Mayenor repeats slowly, gaze shifting between Minna’s stuck-out tongue and Vilkas’s clear unamusement.

“Yeah, I wanted to go looking for them but Vilkas wouldn’t go with me. He said a dragon would eat me.”

“He’s probably right,” Mayenor says seriously, expression solemn. “Dragons tend to do that.”

“ _Really?_ They actually eat people? Not just, like, burn them?” Minna’s blue eyes go wide, and she stares up at Mayenor in awe. Vilkas, mostly forgotten in the exchange, feels a smile tug at his lips: the thought that May looks like a mother telling stories to her child crosses his mind unbidden.

“Sure. They use all sorts of attacks, just like any other warrior. They spit fire or ice at you from a distance, then use melee up close, ripping you to shreds with their talons or flattening you with their tail or swallowing you whole. I saw an Elder Dragon bite a man clean in half once, gobbled down his torso while his legs sat on the ground, still kicking.”

As Mayenor speaks, Minna’s skin pales, and her admiration fades to fear. Mayenor, eyes sparkling with mischief, has to fight down a grin, and Vilkas sighs.

“Don’t scare the whelp,” he grumbles, slugging down half his ale in one gulp. “She’s already afraid of frostbite spiders.”

“Who _wouldn’t_ be?” The Breton retorts, glaring at Vilkas. “They’re _giant spiders_. They’re literally living nightmares. But I bet they’re nothing compared to some of the things _you’ve_ seen.” She rounds back to Mayenor, and Vilkas glances up to find she’s been staring at him while he and Minna spoke. He quickly looks at the table.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me,” Mayenor says, voice quieting. “But I’m just a girl. I haven’t done anything that hadn’t been done before.”

“But you _killed_ a dragon!” Minna argues.

“I was part of a _group_ that killed a dragon,” Mayenor corrects, and Minna frowns. Before she can say anything in argument, though, Vilkas interrupts.

“That’s still more than _she’ll_ ever do if she doesn’t train properly.” Minna’s scathing look sets him to smirking, and she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and flouncing into a seat—pointedly choosing one _away_ from him. Pleased, Vilkas returns to his drink.

“So what are you doing back, Mayenor?” Minna asks, turning her back to Vilkas. “The way everyone talks, you’ve been gone a long time.”

“I have,” May admits, trailing around the table and leaning on the back of a chair not far from Vilkas. “But I had some business in the city. Couldn’t visit Whiterun without stopping in.”

“What kind of business?” Minna leans an elbow on the table, twirling a lock of hair around one uncalloused finger.

“It’s… personal.” Vilkas can feel her eyes on him, pulling his gaze up almost magnetically. Once they lock eyes, he knows he’s stuck.

“Minna,” Mayenor says, not looking away from Vilkas. From the corner of his eye, he sees the younger girl perk up. “You’ll have to excuse Vilkas and me for a moment. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“You can catch up right here!” Minna blabbers, sensing her nonexistent hold on Vilkas’s affection fading. “I’d love to hear you trade war stories—”

“We’ll go to my room,” Vilkas interrupts, standing slowly. He’s at war with himself, willing his body to deny her: he’s spent the last year and a half moving on from her, and he’s done a damn good job. But, the moment she’s in front of him again, he’s completely powerless.

“Wait, no, stay here! I’ll leave!” Minna’s words are shrill, frantic; the implications of another woman in Vilkas’s bedroom horrify her.

“We’ll be fine,” Mayenor assures the other girl, finally looking away and releasing Vilkas from her spell. She turns toward the stairs on the far wall, not even bothering to look back and make sure Vilkas is following.

He always follows her.


	20. Words of Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BREATHES HEAVILY
> 
> This chapter killed me, guys. This whole story has been leading up to this moment and it's even more beautiful than I could have hoped. Hopefully you all feel the same!
> 
> ♥ topside

She settles on the bed.

It’s a familiar place for her, one that stirs fondness in her chest. The thick furs of winter lay neatly folded along the bottom of the bed, kept handy for the lingering chill at night, and she curls her fingers in the hair. The musky smell of sweat and hay and metal clings to everything in the room; it’s a scent she’s grown to love, one that reminds her of him. Being back here, after over a year away, feels like a dream. Many nights in Dawnstar, as she tossed and turned on a bed carved from stone, she returned here in her mind.

And he was here, like he always was in her memories. She’d done everything she could to forget about him, something she’d never struggled to do before. The number of people she’s left behind is nearly unfathomable; most of their faces have long faded from her conscious. But not Vilkas. He haunted her; she thought she saw him in crowds, dreamed of their nights together even as she slept alone. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with her feelings for him.

But the blossom of affection in her chest at the slightest remembrance of him, the near-constant worrying after his happiness, the little voice in her mind asking if he’d approve of the path she’d chosen: they all came too late. She’s wished countless times that she’d succumbed to her longing to tuck herself back into his arms that night she left him, and she’s pictured every way their reunion could play out, but the sight of him leaning against the wall, stony and cold, still takes her breath away.

“Vilkas—” She begins after several long moments of silence.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he interrupts, tone harsh. She can see the pain in his eyes, and she knows he wants answers—but she also knows he’s angry. How could he not be? Of all the scenarios she’d envisioned, this one always seemed most likely.

“Good. I came here to talk, not listen.” He seems taken aback by this: the tension in his shoulders releases a bit; his scowl lets up. Though he doesn’t say anything, she takes his silence as permission to continue—suddenly, though, her pseudo-scripted spiel seems inane.

“I’m not going to apologize,” she announces after a moment of thought-gathering. “There’s no point, and I’m not looking for forgiveness. I just think you deserve an explanation.”

“Isn’t that what Dawnstar was?” He interrupts. “I thought we were done.”

“Do you want to be done?”

The question hangs heavy between them. They stare each other down, and, for the first time in her memory of their relationship, he makes her feel small, his eyes guarded and wary. Her heart is pounding in her chest; the adrenalin makes her sick. Finally, he lets out a long sigh and slides down the wall, letting his head fall back to rest against the masonry. He closes his eyes against her face, looking tired.

“Why did you come back?” He sounds so defeated that her breath catches in her throat, and she switches her gaze to the floor.

“I told you. I wanted to give you closure—”

“ _Closure_?” His eyes snap open; she can feel his glare. “You’ve been gone over a year. Don’t bullshit me, Mayenor. If you’re not going to be honest with me, just leave. I’m done with your games.”

He knows he’s being harsh, and he sees her flinch—and that’s something he never expected. Even faced with a dozen enemies, he’s never seen her falter: that she wavers now makes him wonder. She sits there on his bed, fists clenched in her lap, and he aches to reach out to her, to comfort her. The longer they let the silence stretch, the more his anger dims.

“Just be honest with me, May. Is that so hard?” She chokes on an ironic laugh, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” she breathes, staring at her hands. “It is. Have you ever known me to be a particularly  _honest_  person?”

“No,” he answers, bluntly. “But I think I deserve it.”

“You do.” Her words are earnest, surprising him. “You deserve a hell of a lot more than that. You—” she cuts herself off almost angrily, still glaring at her lap, and Vilkas lets out a low breath. When he stands, her head snaps up, eyes wide as though she expects him to storm out. Instead, he crosses to the bed and sits beside her and covers her hand in his.

“Talk to me.”

The sincerity, the  _gentleness_  in his words reminds her of that night in the bandit camp, when he advised her to enjoy simply being alive, and she feels herself relax at his touch. To anyone else, his entreaty is a modest one; but even when they were something of a couple, they rarely actually  _talked._

“I don’t really know what to say,” she admits, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“Tell me why you really came back. When I left Dawnstar, I never thought I’d see you again—and you knew that. You’re not here for  _my_  benefit.”

“You’re right.” Her confession startles him, but there’s a sense of relief, too. He hopes that he might finally get some answers. “I wanted to see you.” She lets out a slow breath, pursing her lips together as she thinks. Eventually, she turns her head to look him in the eye.

“I had a fiancé in Cyrodiil,” she tells him casually, studying his face for a reaction.

“And?” He prompts.

“He wouldn’t come to Skyrim with me, so I left him behind. And there was a guy at the College—he probably thinks I’m dead by now. Then you already know Brynjolf—”

“I really don’t want to hear this,” Vilkas growls, trying not to clench his jaw.

“No, listen,” she insists. “I don’t miss any of them. I don’t regret leaving them. I don’t wonder what I missed out on. But after I left you…” She hesitates, then, with the same gleam of determination she carries into battle, plunges on. “I tried so hard to forget you, Vilkas, but even before you showed up at the Sanctuary, I couldn’t.”

He waits for some sort of finalization, something to let him know what it all means, but she just stares at him, apparently waiting for input, and he considers. A year ago, he would’ve killed to hear her speak these words—even now his heart is lodged in his throat, suffocating him. Despite all he’s told himself since returning to Whiterun, he still loves her and suspects there will never be a day in which he  _doesn’t_. But to give into her so easily after all she’s put him through seems weak. Still, he can see the fear behind her cold confidence, can feel her hands trembling under his, and knows that, for once, she’s laid all her cards on the table.

“What are you trying to tell me, May?” He asks, voice lowering as his fingers twitch against the urge to curl with hers. He feels her nerves, can almost hear her heart pounding, but her eyes are strangely calm.

“Isn’t it obvious?” The corners of her mouth tip into a hesitant smile. “I love you.”


End file.
